


BODE: Successions

by star_spire



Category: Original Work, The Lumen Campaign
Genre: M/M, Murder Mystery, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 99,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_spire/pseuds/star_spire
Summary: ROLL'EM DICE!
Relationships: KIND OF. - Relationship, Kajack Molucella/Marlon Windsor





	1. The Delta Squad Goes On A Camping Trip

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've said this is non-canonical, but now I'm thinking like. IS IT? Set in-between the Cro arc and the Tourniquet arc, except I seem to remember Kajack saying something about sailing on a dune shredder in here, so maybe this is after Tourniquet?
> 
> Boy, when I left you you were young / I was gone, but not my love  
> You were clearly meant for more / Than a life lost in the war  
> I want you to be happy / Free to run, get dizzy on caffeine  
> Funny friends that make you laugh / And maybe you're just a little bit dappy  
> ("Youth" - Glass Animals)

The curtain is up! The story is new!

The show must go on, so here’s what we’ll do:

We’ll map an estate from pillar to post,

Corruption and care in the Ivory Coast,

And wingwaiters crawling like flies on the glass,

And doctors and dinners and snakes in the grass,

A pirate Q’Ravi, a heartbroken bard,

A boyfriend who holds him in highest regard,

And Wishes, injections, a lull in the plot

(I’ll make sure my readers are warned of the shot), 

A man whose intentions are not what they seem,

A monster, a sailor, a girl with a dream;

Fear not if your favorites are yet unexpressed,

For this is a story about all the rest.

With all of these characters running amok,

I hear the gods humming. I wish Kajack luck.

Whatever the magic, arcane or divine,

Successions are built on a family line.

*

Hidden deep in the Saraseela Forest was a mountain.

Anyone with a little dedication could hike up it, admire the sunrise, snap some pictures, and never notice the steaming, stir-crazy, boisterous community building and rebuilding itself beneath the earth. But every few hours or so a hidden window would fling open to let the air and light in, or a muffled shout would resound through the dirt and stone, or our hypothetical visitor might simply begin to feel uneasy, as one may when walking through a seemingly deserted city and suspecting that the curled-up bundle of fabric huddled against the wall is actually a living human being. The Lumen was down there, oblivious.

If you had been hiking up this mountain and paused to take a breath right when the vents opened, you might have heard the faint, muffled sound of the Lumen Commander Gwendolyn Galdwin outlining the Delta squad’s next mission. The Delta squad—this meant Kajack, Luma, Smolls, Bart, Marlon, and Larkren—were accustomed to their mission perimeters involving singly perilous life-or-death rescue or reconnaissance missions. They were normally time-sensitive, but they could also normally be gotten done over the course of a day.

Luma looked bored. Kajack adorably tilted his head at the map of the country.

“Wait, so, we’re just picking up your mail for you?” asked Bart.

“It’s a preliminary exercise for a mission I’m going to need you all for later,” Gwen said tolerantly. “Think of it as a test run. We’re making sure we can trust you six to travel that far without a guide.”

“Have we not proved ourselves?” said Luma.

“That’s not the concern. I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that you’ve always had some degree of direction up until now. You had Hugo,” said Gwen, inclining her head at Hugo Kretz, who jerked and stood up straight, “when we had you in the military; Toulouse, in Silverpoint; that Keeper girl on your first mission. But this time you will be on your own. Be your own bodyguards, be careful, be _smart,_ keep a record of all the supplies you use so we can compensate you afterward, and, well, don’t make a spectacle of yourselves… and you won’t have any trouble.”

“It’s like you don’t even know us, Gwen,” said Kajack reproachfully.

It was half an hour later when he heard his own name. Gwen was still negotiating with Vierress Arabani and Liz Tremaine about the distribution of resistance supplies. “Molucella, can I speak to you?” said Kretz.

Kajack nodded. Wholly complacent, fully at peace, smoothed out in the soul after hearing his glorious glowing commander heatedly affirm that yes, the Homerunner squad _would_ need access to at least three or four of the forty wolves upstairs if they were going to pull off their own assignment, he obediently trotted out of the office and into the hallway. Kretz’s brows knit together. He frowned at the ground, then looked up and examined Kajack, who was waiting patiently.

“Sir?”

“Be careful,” said Kretz abruptly. “I know you’ve trained for this, but I worry about you.”

“Wow, we’re just picking up a package,” said Kajack, mystified. “I mean, we are literally just standing in for the Lumen’s postal service, it’s not like we’re doing an assassination, or—”

“In _Orilon,”_ Kretz emphasized gently.

“So is that a bad neighborhood, or something?” This hadn’t been in the briefing. “Just, like, scores of Keepers you guys didn’t feel like telling us about?”

“No, it’s—”

“Hugo!” Gwen yelled from down the hall.

Kretz blinked. “Coming!” he called. But instead of making any move to walk away, he hesitated, and then he did something very strange: he took Kajack’s head in his hands and pressed a light, quick peck of a kiss to the very top of it, right in the part of his hair.

“Just be careful,” he said again, this time with a tone that made it very clear he was incredibly unsure of himself and of what he’d just done.

“I’m always careful, sir,” said Kajack merrily. Kretz made a face.

“It’s just that… this is the farthest you’ll have ever gone from the base without backup,” he said. He cleared his throat. “You’ll be all the way across the country. And if something happens to you…”

He coughed heavily into his elbow and grimaced, clearly pained.

“Hugo, seriously, I need your—”

But when Gwen stomped around the corner and noticed what was going on, her eyes softened. “I’ll see you in my office when you have a minute,” she said to Kretz, and he nodded, sheepish.

“Sorry, Gwen,” he said. “I just had some business to resolve with Molucella here.”

“Oh, you’re not fooling anybody,” she said under her breath, turning on her heel and hustling back into her office. When Kretz straightened up and smiled at Kajack, both of them felt a little lighter, as if whatever had needed to be said had been said, and Kajack could leave for the mission with no regrets.

“I’ll be fine,” Kajack chirped. “I always seem to make it out all right! But I’ll keep an eye out, anyway.” He smiled at Kretz.

“The one saving grace of this team, so far,” said Kretz, mostly to himself, “is that you all always seem to make it out all right.”

The original plan was to travel northeast through the Saraseela woods, pick up some extra supplies from Kilbury, and boat south once they reached the Tappila River. Then they would cut through the Applewood Forest and follow the roads from there to Orilon. This plan fell apart as soon as their boat did. In dismay, as they watched the churning bubbling rapids digest the raft they’d been so proud of building—teamwork!—the Delta squad realized they would have no choice but to walk.

It reminded Kajack irresistibly of traveling with BODE. They’d done a risky show in the Capitol once, long ago, before even Kennick had joined, back when they still had all the stars exploding in their eyes. Monroe had taught them how to make simple shelters out of branches and moss. Kajack hadn’t helped at all, just laid on his back with Hal, gazing up in wonder at the sinister black branches crossing over their heads.

Now it was just Kajack, planted firmly on the forest floor, craning his neck to track Marlon’s movements as he disappeared into the canopy above.

“Be careful!” he chirped. “Don’t fall—”

“I won’t,” Marlon called back. “I know what I’m doing!”

“’Preciate it if you two wouldn’t yell,” mumbled Larkren, who was struggling alone to get one of their tents set up.

Larkren and Bart went on first watch, which allowed Kajack and Marlon to shyly put their sleeping bags next to each other. He was laying in that drowsy, emptied-out, not-quite-asleep state about an hour in when suddenly they were all jolted awake by a rich, deep female voice.

“Ho, travelers!”

Then came Bart’s voice, quiet and pleading.

“I can take yeh as far as the ports,” said the stranger. Kajack sat bolt upright. His hair tumbled everywhere. He strained to see shapes moving beyond the canvas of the tent. Now, _this_ moment was evocative of all those nights when Morgan would stay up composing songs, and Kajack would listen from inside the tent, breathless at the melodies but unwilling to disturb his brother’s concentration. Except Kajack hadn’t felt like he was in danger then. He could hear the subtle sounds of his companions stirring tensely in the other tents.

Marlon opened his eyes and pointed them smilingly in the vague direction of Kajack. He had a piece of lichen clinging to his hair. Kajack reached over and absently picked it away, and Marlon’s smile went from bleary to blinding. The terrible word _soulmate_ entered Kajack’s thoughts, and he blinked, struggling to regain his mental footing as if drunk. He smiled back.

“Fine, then, take down yer tents and hop in,” said the woman cheerily.

She was a merchant from Halssenova. Apparently, she wasn’t too familiar with Mestrus’s current political climate, for she talked indiscriminately about Keepers and Lumens with no obvious grasp on what either concept meant. She complimented each of the Delta squad in turn on their collective colorful appearance as they packed their tents and weapons into her cart, which was very old and shambly but charming nevertheless, and, profoundly uncertain about the morality of this stranger but by majority vote willing to embroil themselves in nonsense if it meant getting to Orilon on schedule, they set off around midnight.

This leg of the trip was fast and boring. The transaction went smoothly, and they retrieved Gwen’s package with only a few severe miscommunications. They were about to waltz out and head on back to the Lumen when a stray pack of Keepers descended at the gates of the city.

Looking back, Kajack would later wish he hadn’t expended so many spell slots, but being extra ran in his blood, and his dark desire to whip the Keepers’ asses was easily the sexiest forbidden fruit in the orchard. He entirely forgot Gwen’s warning not to cause a scene. He fought joyfully for the cause and for the love of it.

And then, just when most of the Keepers were down and the fight was cresting to an end, something crashed onto the back of his skull and sent him tumbling into blackness.


	2. Consequences

Kajack was bewildered to find himself tied up on the floor of a dark storeroom, knees resting below him, head and neck tucked into his chest. He stretched against the ropes to no avail. He lifted his head and looked around.

Having never in his life been on a boat, he had no frame of reference for what made the difference between a high-class ship and an old tub. As far as the elaborate carvings on the support beams and the gilding along the floorboards went, he probably wasn’t too far off in his immediate impression of the boat as expensive. Or at least well-loved. It was gliding smoothly across the water, but the smoothness probably had more to do with fair weather than craftsmanship.

There was a human man sitting on a stool in the darkest corner of the room, picking at his fingernails.

Kajack couldn’t see very much he could do to escape his current circumstances without outside intervention. He shifted on his bony knees, uncomfortable, and tried to aim for a tone of voice that would blend in with the grumble of the sea outside.

“I’m on a boat called the _Unity,”_ he breathed into his spell phone. He had blearily read the name, elegantly painted on the side of the schooner, as his kidnappers had carried him down the docks. “I can’t tell what direction we’re going, but we’re moving fast—”

“Got it,” said Luma briskly. A faint trickle of static scraped his ear. “Hold tight, Kajack, we’re on our way. We’ll find you.”

The man in the corner must have seen his lips move. He walked over and squatted down in front of Kajack, so close Kajack could see the beads of sweat gathering along his hairline. “Where is it?” the man said, calmly. “You tell me now, I won’t search you. And when I find it, I won’t cut it out of your body.” He flicked open a glittering silver folding knife and smacked the flat of its blade against his palm, menacingly. This was enough for Kajack.

“Earring,” he gasped out. “My right ear.” He turned his head.

“I’ll be damned,” said the man. He did not smile. “Stones of Farspeech getting smaller every day. Well, go on, say goodbye to your friends, I ain’t unreasonable.” With his free hand, he scratched his temple, just below the prominent white streak in his black hair. “Go on!”

Kajack whined. “I love you, please save me,” he whimpered into his earring. He swallowed. “And, hunks, you’ll wanna change the frequency of your spell phones, I’ve been compromised.”

“Love you too, we’ll be—” For a second, their connection broke. Then he heard the tinny clash of metal and an angry curse.

The man with the white streak reached over and gently undid the clasp of Kajack’s earring. He put it into his pocket. “And that’s that,” he said. He reached between his legs to grab the stool, pulled it forward, took a very masculine seat, and tilted his head at Kajack, who was now glaring at him from the floor. “Oh, what? What’d I do to deserve that look? It’s money, kid, I got a family to feed.”

This was good, Kajack decided. A chatty guard was good. He craned his neck to see the man’s face and said, “You got a name, handsome?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Not to you.”

“Oh, you won’t throw me a bone? C’mon! I’m having a rough day! I just got kidnapped! It’s not like knowing your name will get me rescued, especially now you’ve taken my—”  
  
“I been given permission to hurt you a little if I have to. I’m being _nice_ as it is, son, so don’t push it.”

Kajack swallowed and fell silent.

Then he said, “How long am I going to have to lay here like this?”

The man huffed out a breath. “Couple hours. Ivory Coast. You’ll live.”

This actually was useful. Kajack snatched up the scrap of information and greedily slobbered over it. He strained to remember what cities were on the western edge of the peninsula. As far as he could recall, he’d only been that far south once.

He said, “Is this your _job?”_

The man looked at him. He sighed, ran a hand through his stiff black hair, and said, “Listen, kid, if you keep annoying me, the worst thing that’ll happen isn’t that I’ll cut you. I’ll just go up on deck, and the big guy’ll come down here and replace me, and I promise you, you don’t want that.”

Kajack flexed his toes in his boot. He must have gotten splashed earlier, because a slosh of seawater had seeped into his toes, and his entire foot felt numb. “Is there anything I can say that won’t annoy you?” he asked meekly.

“You can sing,” the man offered. “Gods know it gets boring, we agree on that. I’d love a tune. Just don’t try to charm me or I’ll kick you in the face.”

“You want me to sing from _here?”_

The man paused and swept his eyes across Kajack’s prostrate form. “I suppose you’re better off being quiet, then,” he said coldly.


	3. The Minotaur is Introduced

The ship slithered heavily up against the dock, and the deckhands ran around it, barking orders and seizing ropes that were—to Kajack’s eyes—being snatched up entirely at random. He just stood there, dizzy, nauseated, stiff, blinking in the sunlight, totally unable to really comprehend the glittering lights and swift crowds of Bellichi as they swirled like frightened schools of fish on the great sandstone roads a hundred feet away.

Like any Mestrian, Kajack was familiar with the Ivory Coast as the beating heart of the wealthy elite, but, having always pictured the super-rich as an isolated group of twelve or so stingy older elves with lemon-pucker faces perched atop distant thrones, he was actually flustered at the immensity of the population before him. There were _so many people._ He gazed wonderingly at the face of a young tiefling girl standing on the dock. Her hair was visibly dirty, her coat black and modest, and she was watching the ship pull in with intelligent shiny dark eyes. Her skin was a deep violet-blue. She caught his eye and frowned a little, then stepped back and vanished into the frothing mass of parasols and handbags.

Kajack made a decision. He twisted away from his captor’s hands with one sudden jerk. He overbalanced and bounced forward on one foot, swinging his arms wildly; but, ignoring his twisted ankle, he rallied and took off in a wide, jagged line down the deck of the ship and was nearly to the gangplank when a pair of huge hands caught him around the belly and slammed him to the wood.

He fought and screamed, hardly a civilian about it. He’d been through rigorous training for scenarios exactly like this one, with _Viridios,_ of all people, and if he could squirm his way out from between Viridios’s thick trunks, surely no mortal humanoid creature stood a chance. Right?

But this was an impossible force. A spine-snapping level of strength. He was incapacitated by the weight of at least four or five fully grown men.

The big hands released him just long enough to peel him off the deck and flip him over onto his back. Kajack’s vision returned as he flopped about and heaved for oxygen.

He stilled.

He lost all fight. His scream went out in his throat like a punctured lightbulb. He lay still and simply stared, openmouthed, at the face of his opponent.

The cruel eyes that gazed back were those of an impossibly huge minotaur, the head of which alone was half the size of Kajack’s whole body. It was growling and huffing out warm breaths that stung his exposed throat. Kajack summoned movement into his bloodless limbs and cringed backward into the deck in silent submission. The creature wasn’t even holding him anymore. He was just lying there. His brain was screaming orders to scramble up and run, but he was just lying there, still and obedient.

The minotaur barked a gruff order at the man with the white streak. He marched over and grabbed Kajack by the arm. Kajack was in shock. He meekly allowed this suddenly unimpressive human to haul him upright and spool a line of rope around his wrists. He couldn’t take his eyes off the beast, which was now snorting and growling around the ship, rattling the mast with every step.

It was so much bigger than the one they’d met in the sewers beneath Silverpoint. It was covered in a sheen of matted fur, which glistened like a great bloated bloody thing in the sun. Kajack gasped for air and spasmed in an alien twisting motion, side to side. His ribs felt like pulp within his frame.

“Get down there,” the minotaur barked in Common. “Move it!”

Kajack cried out and stumbled forward down the gangplank. The man with the white streak followed him awkwardly, like a humping animal, still holding his wrists together.

“Would someone fucking gag him!” called a thickly accented Rasputin woman from the dock below. “He’s a bard, he’ll blow us all sky-high if we are not careful.” As if, thought Kajack sourly; he felt like he’d never summon enough air into his lungs to sing a song again, much less a spell. A moment later, a filthy, salty rag was jammed into his mouth. But before Kajack even had the chance to retch, the Rasputin woman was complaining about his colorful hair, and then all at once there was a black sack over his head and he could no longer see.

They guided him off the ship until he was once again standing on solid earth. Then he was unkindly pushed forward through what felt like—had to be—the same bustling crowd of people that had so disoriented him. Kajack choked around the sweaty rag, pointedly wrestling against his bonds, but all the people were brushing past him uncaringly, as if they couldn’t see the obvious kidnapping in progress.

And above it all was an endless droning cry:

“Finery—jewelry—dragonskin coats! Opium shots, sanctioned, better than insurance… _carry your bags sir? Bags?_ I hear five hundred, five hundred, ancient vase, five hundred twenty… haven’t seen it at the Beweth market—don’t touch that, get it away from me… milk and eggs!—oh Lord, what is _that,_ dear me…”

“Bellichi,” snorted the man with the white streak. “I used to work in the Capitol. Fuckin’ anywhere you go, markets are the same. But the fads lately, I swear…”

“Not anymore,” came the clipped Rasputin accent.

“Not anymore. Keepers all over it, like ants.”

Kajack, who had been under the impression that his kidnappers themselves were Keepers, tripped.

“Keep going!” snarled the voice of the minotaur. Kajack received a gut-scrambling shove on the back of his shoulder. He grimaced around the rag in his mouth and regained his footing. It was really unintuitive to walk straight forward without knowing where he was walking.

“You know, he could go on ahead of us,” said the man with the white streak, in an apparent aside. “Clear the way.”

A moment later, Kajack was no longer feeling sleeves brushing his exposed skin, nor shoulders knocking against his own, and he estimated that a few more feet of clear space had opened up around him.

“How much farther?” asked the Rasputin woman. Kajack was pathetically grateful to her for asking. His foot itched. And a peculiar suspicion had been spreading over him like a blight for the past few minutes.

“Couple minutes if we take this alleyway,” said the man. And indeed the air soon became cool, and the bustling sounds of the city lessened, and the thin, reedy scent of cigar smoke began to creep along the passages of Kajack’s nose. “How are you, kid?” the man asked suddenly, giving Kajack a shake. “Still awake in there?”

Kajack made a muffled noise.

“I think I liked him better before we gagged him,” said the man to the Rasputin woman.

“Do not be sensitive, Zhara,” said the woman fondly. She said something in Rasputin that Kajack did not understand. “I’d better get back and start dinner. Good luck with boss.”

“Oh, him? He loves me,” said Zhara. For the first time since Kajack had encountered him, he sounded like he was smiling. “Cast a Sending scroll when you’re home so I know you’ve—”

“Quiet,” rumbled the minotaur.

“Shit,” whispered Zhara.

Kajack was listening so hard that the tips of his ears were trembling against the fabric of the sack. His kidnappers had abruptly stopped, so he stopped, too, and as far as he could tell, the four of them were just standing there, silent, still, in the middle of a cool, damp alleyway.

“If it’s my bastard sibling…” Zhara whispered.

The moment passed.

The minotaur prodded Kajack again, as if his spine was a lever and pushing it would make handy wheelbarrow wheels extend from Kajack’s boots. “Get moving.” He resumed.

There had not been any comments from the woman from Rasputina for a while, so he was surprised when she spoke again, five or six minutes later. “That it? Looks different from the front.”

“Go home, Luba,” said Zhara, who sounded tired.

The ground changed beneath Kajack’s feet. He had stepped onto something softer than sandstone. Intermittently, his feet bumped against small, round, hard objects. He made a sound.

“Shut up,” said Zhara. “You’ll feel better once we’ve got you inside. Come on.”


	4. Lord Anaris is Introduced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fatphobia warning. WHOOPS. SHIT.

Kajack could feel the pressure of the minotaur’s stertorous breathing and snorting even from five feet away. It was like the thing didn’t have an off switch. Every breath it took felt like the preparatory sort of gasp an injured animal takes in the split second before it thrashes out. And then, every so often, the creature would emit a dark, rolling growl.

It was still not sexy. He was scared.

A pair of slender, cold hands gripped the sides of his ears, with a pressure not entirely unkind, through the thin fabric of the sack. They stroked the lobes in a gentle, wide circle. Kajack jerked. Now the fingers were slipping around, tickling behind, to the nape of his neck, almost like his mother used to do. The sack over his head slackened and lifted off his face.

Kajack blinked. He strained forward in the chair, peering around the room to catch every detail. As far as he could tell, he was sitting in the center of a small private library—no, a study! There was a polished wooden desk in the center, lit only by a dripping candle. He didn’t recognize any of the books in its sphere of light. One read _Anarchis._ Another _Anatheim._ Some titles were written in the dark swooping curves of Elvish.

There was a great golden globe on one of the bookshelves. Mestrus was facing him. He took no comfort in this.

Oh, he wasn’t alone! He let out a muffled, startled cry. Against the far wall was a line of—Kajack squinted—servants, as far as he could tell, in a variety of humanoid races. They were staring at him openly.

“Kajack,” purred the unmistakable voice of Lord Valentino Anaris.

It was as if all color fell away from the world. Kajack was squirming hard against the ropes and had nearly freed a hand when the minotaur lumbered forward and seized him. Kajack cried out again, this time in pain.

Anaris strolled around Kajack in a wide crescent.

Kajack stared at the rug beneath his feet and listened beyond the sound of his own hammering heart to the smart click of the man’s heels against the floorboards. It was only when Anaris had stopped directly in front of him that he looked up and took in the perfect hair, the horrible smug quirk of the lips, the thin eyes, the posture. The sickening smell of roses.

The signet ring glittering on his hand.

Little traces of wet foam were starting to gather at the corners of Kajack’s mouth. He realized that he had been struggling to breathe since Anaris had touched him. He pressed his tongue against the fabric and tried to force the rag out of the way.

Anaris closed his eyes. “Yes, Kajack, I can see very well that there is bad blood between us, but as it is Anaris blood, I implore you to compose yourself for the sake of our shared legacy.” He opened his eyes, which glittered in the light of the single candle, and raised a hand. “Would someone _please_ allow him to speak freely?”

One of the male servants bowed, scurried forward, and bent to pull out the rag. When he felt the wet fabric, he grimaced, but took it, gingerly, between his fingers and peeled it away. Kajack coughed and spat. Not a very sexy sound. It had been an awful long time since he or the rest of the Delta squad had been manhandled—well, at least, in a way they hadn’t asked for.

He smiled.

“Father,” he croaked. “And here I thought I’d been captured by Keepers.”

Anaris laughed. “Keepers? Oh, Kajack, son, did Hugo not tell you? I don’t align myself with the _Keepers._ Any simpleton with a speck of political intelligence can tell at a glance that our government has completely lost the plot—”

“Hugo?”

No, right? No. He wouldn’t even think it.

Anaris jerked his chin at the great minotaur holding Kajack. “His name is Hugearmious,” he said. “Why? You know someone by the name? Ah, then, would you prefer it if, to avoid confusion, I only called Hugearmious by his full first name?” His tone was pleasant, almost kind. When Kajack nodded, Anaris nodded too, and then he said, richly, “Now, Kajack, you mustn’t interrupt me. It’s unseemly. We’ll have to teach you etiquette, my boy, if you’re going to attract any highborn ladies.”

He waved his hand at the minotaur, which released Kajack.

Kajack had no time to run. Anaris grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him out of the darkened study, away from the servants (witnesses!), and planted him in the middle of the hallway. The inlet was visible. Anaris cocked his head to the side like a bird of prey.

“Pity about your sister,” he said, lightly. “I heard she died in some tragic suicide pact. I would’ve left it alone, but I am afraid I can no longer produce, so… you, my only heir, Kajack, I—I simply had to find you. Past be damned.” He scratched his beard and looked at Kajack critically. “But a terrorist group? You could not have picked a less politically convenient organization to join! Well, lucky for you, money smooths all ways. They’ll never know.”

Kajack rolled an Intelligence check. So, Anaris was familiar with the fact that he had two children, a girl and a boy, and he had obviously never bothered to memorize their names, because if he had the boy in front of him, then it must have been the girl who’d died.

Kajack smiled thinly.

“Do you miss your sister?” Anaris said, watching him with an inescapable beadiness.

“Yeah,” said Kajack. “She looked just like our mother.” This was not true. Neither Kajack nor Morgan had strongly resembled Rhea Molucella, though they’d both inherited the hair. Kajack felt a bead of sweat form on his scalp. Morgan was a subject he stayed _away_ from.

“Mm, I remember her being terribly fat,” said Anaris dismissively. He folded his hands behind his back and turned to gaze out the window, which was a remarkably merciful coincidence, as one glance at Kajack’s face in that moment would have burned his eyes out. “I do hope she cleared up that problem at some point before her untimely death. Absolutely hideous little thing as is, but the baby fat on the creature could’ve fed the whole estate.”

Kajack said nothing.

“I,” Anaris announced, “should never have met your mother.”

“Then you’d have no heirs at all,” Kajack heard himself say.

Anaris turned and looked at him closely. “Oh, what a dreadfully obvious response!” he cried, blinking and frowning. “Do try to be original, Kajack! But there it is, exactly my point. Had I never met your mother and soiled my bloodline with ignoble blood, it would die out with me, but as it is, I am obligated to care for what is left of my legacy. Can’t have you running around sowing your seed in all kinds of ridiculous lowborn animals.”

It was this nonsensical return to eugenics that snapped Kajack out of his silent shock. He said coldly, “This is some sort of test, yeah? You’re trying to figure out whether I’ll let you slander my family in front of me, or if I’ll challenge you to a duel or whatever it is you—you sick rich freaks do together.” _Sorry, Luma,_ he added mentally.

“Bravo!” said Anaris, delighted. “No, no, I was in earnest, but your wit, Kajack! Your sharpness! There may be a Scericus within your clay yet! Let’s slough it off, my boy, see what’s underneath.”

Kajack ignored the mythical allusion, which was in itself laden with horrible inferences, and said instead, “Can I still duel you, though?”

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you fencing lessons,” said Anaris breezily. “You won’t want to challenge me—not after you watch me absolutely wreck Oliver’s pert little ass on the training grounds. I’ve held the Bellichi sparring championship for the past fifteen years.”

He flexed his hand, and the rings on it glittered like scales in the sunlight.

Kajack said, “Are you a _bard?”_

“Like father, like son, eh? Sure, I used to be, until I multiclassed with a homebrew rogue-pirate… something-or-other. Not that I’ve ever had any use for it, but I confess I do like to show off my range from time to time.”

“Oh,” said Kajack, remembering the ship that had brought him in.

He gritted his teeth.

“It’s a shame,” he said brightly, “that someone as conceptually compelling as you had to be deeply, terribly, repellently racist. So tell me. Why _aren’t_ you in with the Keepers? Sounds like you agree with all the ‘humans and elves only’ stuff. Right?”

Anaris looked at him in surprise. “What, did you crit fail a Perception check? You’ve seen my staff! The illustrious Hugearmious? The ever-cultured Monty? I’m very sympathetic to the plight of the nonhuman folk! I give them shelter, food! A place to live and work!”

“Gods, Anaris, you just told me you didn’t want me _breeding_ with _animals,”_ said Kajack, who was gingerly pressing his fingernails into the palm of his hand until they hurt.

“Oh, no,” Anaris chuckled. “I was talking about poor people, Kajack. And that’s _Lord_ Anaris, if you’re already tired of calling me Father.”

There was a slightly pointed pause.

“Oh—of course,” Anaris said hastily, inclining his head; “tired, yes, you _must_ be tired, hmm? And I suppose no one has seen to the wounds you have sustained. Why don’t I show you to your rooms? I will have to lock you up in there, but at the very least you can get some rest. And—” he winked—“a few minutes free of my company. I’ll send a man to clean you up.” A man.

 _Marlon, I’m sorry,_ Kajack whispered to himself, _and I hope you realize that what I’m going to have to do is practical, survival only, but a man. A man! Anaris doesn’t know I spent my entire adolescence learning how to look hot to men, even straight men. I can get anyone in the palm of my hand without even a spell._

_And that’s all I’ve got left, is my body. That’s all I have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that if you're a stranger, and not one of my friends, you might not know that Kajack has certain as-yet-undefined body issues. Watch out for (mild, but present) verbal themes of fatphobia from Anaris.
> 
> Also, as long as I'm here, I should also take the time to warn you about the presence of mutilation (i.e., eye horror) in future chapters. Standard D&D violence - but still potentially disturbing. It is not SEEN nor DESCRIBED DIRECTLY, but characters will allude to it. Ouch!


	5. Oliver is Introduced

At the western side of the Anaris estate, where the coast lapped against the rocks far below, there was a long, spindly tower that contained nothing but a winding set of stairs. The rooms that Anaris had prepared for Kajack were at the very top.

There were a few smaller chambers off to each side—one containing a washroom, another a walk-in closet, a sunny breakfast bar—but the main chamber was a simple, white, circular room of marble that narrowed like a cone as it rose, giving Kajack the impression that he was standing in a tent. The room did not narrow into a point, but halted in a flat ceiling, into which was set a round skylight. The only other thing Kajack could see in the chamber was a padded white mattress on a low white bedframe. There were no decorations. There were no other windows.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Anaris said, “by throwing you headlong into a new lifestyle while you’re so used to ‘roughing it.’” And then he cheerfully promised that a servant would be up within the hour with a fortifying meal and bandages.

“I suppose…” He put his finger against his lips. “Yes, your new valet has some medical knowledge. I’m sure you understand why it was necessary to bring you here by force,” he added mournfully. “I do hope Hugearmious and Zhara didn’t hurt you too badly.” He sounded sincere. In the same breath, he “offered” Kajack a change of clothes.

“I’m not getting rid of this outfit,” Kajack told him. “I’m not wearing your stupid rich person clothes.” He intended to keep his red sweater on until the day it fell apart from wear, if that was what it took. But Anaris, having “taken his leave,” as he called it, was already retreating down the stairs at that point, and he gave no indication that he’d heard. Which was probably for the best.

Now Kajack was standing in the breakfast bar, which did have a window, albeit one that would not open, and was strongly considering chipping away at the paint and dislodging the glass so he could crawl out. The unfortunate reality was that he could not throw himself into the ocean from this side, since the sea was to the west. He was pondering whether he had enough bedsheets to make a ladder when a soft knock came at the door.

Kajack emerged into the main chamber and called, “Come in.” 

It was the servant who had removed Kajack’s gag. He was a young elven man, maybe a little older than Kajack, with a sparse mustache and heavy black eyes. He was lanky and long, with oily, pale skin and two big hands at the ends of two thin wrists; his tunic was too big for him, and he had a narrow look in his face and frame, as if he’d grown up without very much to eat.

Kajack deflated a little.

In his twenty-two years, he’d found that muscular men were more sexually accessible. That didn’t mean they were more attractive, but he knew what to do with himself around them. They were responsive in predictable ways. If he fumbled, he could always resort to gently running his hand across their abs and saying _wow_ real quiet. Slender men were certainly attractive to Kajack, but it was a rawer, shyer sort of attraction, and he was singularly self-conscious around them. He often defaulted to treating them as rivals. Like Cro.

Or Marlon.

He couldn’t suck the guy off right away, anyway. He’d have to make it authentic. Build up some trust. He forced a smile. “Hello,” he said pleasantly. “You’re…?”

“Oliver Rose, sir,” said the man, bowing.

“And what do you do?”

“I keep the lights on.” His eyes flashed. “I hope I find you well this evening, Mr. Anaris. I am your valet, which means I am your personal servant.” His lip quirked upward. “I’ll be happy to assist with any injuries you may have sustained during your journey.”

He offered an armful of cloths and bandages. He was also carrying a light lenin bag, which was swaying gently, under the other arm.

“I’d really rather you called me Kajack,” said Kajack sweetly. “I’m not an Anaris! Thank you, Mr. Rose, but if you leave the medicine bag here, I’d prefer to tend to my injuries myself.”

“As you wish,” replied Oliver, entering the room at last and setting the bundle of fabric on the foot of the bed. “But this bag is actually your supper, if it please you. Lord Anaris suggested that you may not care to join him for dinner tonight.” He removed a small metal thermos from the linen bag and offered it to Kajack, who took it warily.

“Ooh! Is it poison,” asked Kajack. Oliver looked weary.

“It’s not poisoned. Lord Anaris would not poison you, sir, and neither would his household. What I’ve brought you is from the servants’ supper.”

“Fine,” said Kajack, whose priorities had shifted wildly away from “escape by seduction” to “survive poisoning attempt” in the past few minutes. “Then you taste it first!”

He thrust out the thermos. Oliver, who looked as though he had expected nothing less, obligingly took it, uncapped it, took out a small golden fork from his tunic pocket, and ate a forkful while Kajack watched. He shrugged. “It tastes fine, sir. A little gamey. I think it’s venison. You’d be having pork loin, but you’d have to come down and eat with the other nobles, and I doubt Lord Anaris would want—I mean to say, you’re very tired.”

He passed the thermos back to Kajack, who seized on this slip.

“He wouldn’t want me at the table?” he asked incredulously. “The man literally kidnapped me and dragged me across Pippin Cove—he’s keeping me locked up in his tallest tower like a damsel in distress—and he wouldn’t _want me?”_

Oliver looked like he wished he hadn’t spoken. “Sir, may I speak plainly?”

“I wish you would,” said Kajack scornfully, flopping down on the bed. He cracked open the thermos and took a long swig. Oh. It was stew. Hence why Oliver had used a fork. When he looked up, Oliver was holding out the very same golden fork with a pained expression, so Kajack took it and dug in.

“With all respect,” said Oliver, staring straight ahead, “you are hardly the picture of the polite heir, Mr. Anaris—er, I mean, sir. Lord Anaris often dines with other lords and ladies from around the city, and I expect he would mislike an—an—” He struggled, blushing hard and not meeting Kajack’s eyes. “—an unwilling, uneducated, unhappy guest to accompany him and… complicate his affairs. Besides, you are bearing wounds that his lordship has, by his own hand or otherwise, inflicted on you,” he added. “But it is not my place to agree or disagree with his actions.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

Kajack looked up. “Did my father feed you from his nipple, or something?” he asked incredulously. “I mean, he _kidnapped_ me! And we’re just, what, acting like all this is normal? How much is the man paying you?”

Oliver’s ear twitched. “As I say, it is not my place,” he said. But an unfathomable light had entered his eyes, not of respect, nor hatred, but what Kajack thought was an empty sort of interest. With no particular intonation, he continued:

“Is there anything else I can… help you with, sir?”

Kajack choked on a chunk of meat. He swallowed hard, eyes streaming, and stood up quickly, turning his back on Oliver. Now, this language he understood. But it had finally occurred to him that if he was too obvious about his preferences, Anaris would stop sending male servants. He would have to be careful.

At last, he said, “Ah… yes. Would you mind showing me the clothes my father wants me to wear?”

Oliver approached. He picked up two items from the pile of dressings, unfolded them, and held them up, wordlessly, with no expression.

Kajack tilted his head at the uninspiring pale eggshell shirt. It was stiff, fitted, and ornately patterned with various ruffs and collars and bright pearl cufflinks and buttons. There was also a pair of elegant, slim black pants, also pearled. Neither shirt nor pants had visible seams.

He stepped back and shook his head fiercely. “I am _not_ wearing that,” he said. For one thing, a shirt that tight would show off too much of his chest, and, along the same lines as his earlier revelation, it had suddenly become imperative to Kajack that he preserve some of Anaris’s relevant misconceptions.

Oliver nodded and folded up the outfit again. “I will send Montgomery to fetch new clothes. What is more to your taste, sir?”

“Like what you’re wearing,” said Kajack.

Oliver’s cheeks went pink, and his ears trembled. “I… I suppose that can be arranged,” he said carefully. “Lord Anaris won’t like it, but you do have to wear something. And I have no interest in forcing you to wear what his lordship wants. Will there be anything else, sir?”

Kajack paused. A sadness had filtered into his thoughts. “No,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Oliver bowed his head. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” he said, sounding for all the world like he meant it. He backed out of the room and gently clicked the door shut.

A moment later, the bolt slammed into place like the crack of a whip.


	6. Kajack Makes His First Escape Attempt

Kajack woke the next morning feeling more like himself. The horror of being dragged through a strange city had faded into something resembling a forgotten dream, and, now that his toes had warmed up, his hesitancy had melted back down and once again molded to the shape of its container. He felt fresh and strong.

He stretched luxuriously. He had slept well and dreamed of home. Which was fitting, since his home was his body now, and his body was his clothes. Which he’d slept in. But he was now feeling pretty rank, so he flounced to the walk-in closet and prepared to make the best of a bad situation.

It wasn’t so bad. Though the terrible pearled shirt remained prominently hung up at the front (under an accent lamp, no less!), folded in the corner of the walk-in closet was a modest tunic and a pair of trousers not unlike the ones Oliver had been wearing. Kajack put these on. He smoothed his hands down the front of his rough cotton shirt and turned slowly.

It was not what he would have chosen.

“Oh, exceptional, Kajack,” he said to himself. “Your friends are out there risking their asses to save you while you’re having a fashion show alone in your room. Get a grip.”

He wriggled the red sweater—muddy and stained, but not torn—back on over his tunic. He played with the bracelet clasp. The scene from the window over the breakfast bar suggested that it was dawn. Helping himself to a small parfait, which materialized at his approach, Kajack wandered back into the main chamber and promptly flung yogurt all over himself in surprise. A small squirrel, perfectly grey, was huddled in the very center of the circular room, exactly where some of the swirling grey patterns in the hard marble floor criss-crossed.

Kajack doubtfully nudged it with his socked foot. It chittered at him. Hefting itself up self-importantly onto its tiny thighs, it emitted a familiar voice:

“Good morning, sir, it’s Oliver. I am afraid I have been called away to defend the front gate against a band of Lumen terrorists. I assure you that your friends will not be harmed beyond reason. I trust that you can dress yourself and find your breakfast on your own, but if you require assistance with anything at all, simply recite my name to this creature and I will rush to your room and assist you. Otherwise, your father is expecting your company in his study at your convenience between the hours of ten and eleven.” Here, the squirrel resumed its natural behavior and began to nibble adorably at its front paws.

Kajack swallowed his mouthful of yogurt and fruit.

He coaxed the squirrel near him with a piece of walnut. When the creature was close, he grabbed it around the middle. It squealed and endeavored to writhe out of his grip—clearly, this was just an ordinary squirrel, if enchanted—but he ignored its indignant chittering and said to it, “Oliver Rose!”

As if to purposefully thwart his expectations, the creature did not vanish in a wizardly puff of smoke (cool), nor did it begin to wriggle in the direction of the hidden tunnel through which he assumed it had gotten into his supposedly sealed room (useful), but it instead became very still and rigid. A moment later, a bright point of light appeared at the corner of Kajack’s vision, and by the time he had turned to face it, it was already expanding into the sharpening silhouette of a sodden, sweaty Oliver, who was gasping for breath and mopping his forehead.

“Aha!” said Kajack triumphantly, waggling the squirrel at him. “I’ve lured you away from the battle!”

“Yes, well done,” snapped Oliver, sweeping over to him. “Your friends are very _creative,_ you know that?” He yanked the squirrel out of Kajack’s hands and vanished it with a flick of his wrist. “I suppose I should thank you, _sir;_ combat makes me nauseous.”

Kajack ignored all the melodrama and grabbed Oliver by the shoulders. He was overjoyed to find that the man wasn’t actually that much taller than him. “So what happened?” he demanded excitedly. “Did they get inside the house? Are they on their way to rescue me?”

Oliver looked straight at him. “You do realize that you’re not locked up anymore, right?” he said flatly. “You could go down and see for yourself. You just can’t leave the estate.”

Kajack, who had already flung open the door and was thundering down the stairs, barely caught the end of Oliver’s sentence. It didn’t trouble him. His brain was concocting a lovely vision of Bart, Smolls, Larkren—Marlon, _Luma—_ joyously slicing and stabbing a path through Anaris’s guards. As he whipped around corners and sped down endless stairways, he poured all his belief and trust in the world and the gods to bring this wonderful image to moving, breathing, loving life.

He slammed full tilt into a young tiefling girl, blue-skinned, who gasped and tumbled with the full tray of steaming food she was holding to the ground. “Oof!” Kajack grunted. He pushed past her.

The ground floor of the estate opened up into a gorgeous botanical garden. It glowed and glimmered with flowers and fountains. Kajack slowed. He gazed unseeingly at the fat little bees and wide, pillowy petals. There was no sign of a battle here.

He fought down panic and told himself that he had simply gotten confused by the unfamiliar layout and gone to the back of the estate instead of the front. But when he turned around to try again in the other direction, he found himself face-to-waist with the minotaur.

Kajack didn’t dare move. His mind whirled.

Surely, this creature was a gentle giant, right? There was a heart of gold under all that thick meat; there had to be. He was looking at a person, no? A person working for pay? Like any other hired muscle? This haunting visage couldn’t possibly be happy under the current regime. But all Kajack could see were those three-fingered hands, hard like iron, opening and closing and crushing anything unlucky enough to stray between their rigid folds.

Seduction might just help him out, for once. Surely no one else in the world had ever braved those swinging horns.

He gulped. “G-good morning,” he said meekly. “Hu…”

Hugearmious focused its great red eyes on him and huffed a long, strained breath. “Mister Anaris,” it rumbled.

Kajack decided to let this one go.

“Hugearmious,” he said, jerking his head down in a respectful nod. “Um… there was an attack on the house this morning?”

“Out front,” Hugearmious said. Its horns shone in the soft dawn gold. “Keepers took ’em.”

Kajack gasped. “No! No, please, no—”

He ducked past Hugearmious’s mountainous form and sprinted down the wide hallway toward the east side of the mansion. He burst through the grand oaken doors and, momentarily disconcerted at the sight of an extensive green lawn scattered with tiny white balls, spotted a tree line a few hundred feet ahead. He ran for it.

There were several clusters of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen scattered through the lawn like obstacles to evade in a child’s tag game. Several gasped at the sight of him; another wrinkled her nose. But Kajack abruptly realized that the real threat would be the various armored guards stationed at the edge of the green. The three nearest had not yet noticed him, occupied as they were with cleaning up their own and each other’s injuries, but he probably only had about six seconds left before he was spotted.

I can take three guards, Kajack thought.

Then he glimpsed a couple of familiar faces striding across the field. Both were smeared in blood. There was a blade clenched roguishly between Zhara’s teeth. He was also carrying a basket full of oblong objects—no, wait! That was Larkren’s sword, Luma’s rapier, Marlon’s bow, Smolls’s axe! Even one of Bart’s spellbooks. The pages were bent! Kajack let out an involuntary strangled cry. One of the guards straightened up and turned to look.

Zhara was already in motion. His legs blurred as he whipped toward Kajack. He’d dropped the basket and tackled Kajack around the waist before the latter even had the chance to change his course.

“Oof!” Zhara grunted, muffled by the knife in his mouth. Kajack recognized it as Luma’s squiggly dagger and cried out in a wild, terrible fury. “Stop! Stop, kid, fuck, just listen to me!”

The man took the knife out of his mouth. “Listen,” he said, a little more calmly, “it’s the same as before. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if you keep fighting me. Just let me—”

“Let me _go!”_ Kajack shrieked. He bit Zhara on the hand, but Zhara only let out a long, controlled hiss and did not release his grip.

“Luba,” he called, and the Rasputin woman came hurrying over. She grimaced at Kajack.

“What a state,” she said severely. She shook her head. “If Anaris does not start officially paying me…”

Kajack cast Thunderwave.

Zhara was thrown backward ten feet, five feet high, as the world rang and sparked. He jerked and crackled in the vibrating air. When he landed, he rolled for several feet and did not get up again. Kajack crowed.

But Luba stood her ground. She flared her nostrils and balled her fists and squeezed her eyes tightly shut and grounded herself into the earth. And then, with one powerful, controlled motion, she abruptly flung out a fist and punched Kajack hard in the center of the chest.

His breath evaporated instantly. It was as if a vacuum had opened up in his core and flattened out his lungs. The spell broke, and he crumpled into the ground, wheezing, drowning on air.

The three guards had jogged up to help by this point. One of them crouched over the prone Zhara, but another, braver guard seized Kajack and lifted him up by the armpits like a disobedient cat. Kajack was helpless against this and could do nothing but gasp for breath.

“Help me out here, Mrs. Zen,” said the guard urgently. Luba silently picked up Kajack’s ankles and lifted his butt off the ground. The final guard strode beside them watchfully as these two human nightmares carried Kajack, wheezing still like a dying animal, back into the Anaris estate.


	7. Lord Anaris Requests to Speak to Kajack

“Fine,” said Anaris heavily. He stalked into the study with a haughty gravity that Kajack had only ever seen from Luma and let the door fall shut behind him with a disappointing click. “Name what injustices I have done, and I will seek to remedy them.”

Kajack stared at him blankly. Then he snapped back into himself. “If you actually don’t know,” he said pointedly, “if you actually don’t see what’s wrong—you _hurt_ me! You kidnapped me! You attacked my friends!”

“They attacked my house, Kajack,” Anaris said, uncurling a manicured white hand. “I would not have had you hurt had you not resisted. I gave you your own room. I gave you food and water.” Food. Kajack’s gut clenched. He had already burned up his excuse for a breakfast.

“Yes! About that!” he cried weakly. “You trapped me in a room that’s a hundred square feet at, at _most!”_

“Well, goodness, Kajack, what would you prefer, round feet? Besides, I’ve given you the whole house now, not just your room. I’ve been more than generous—”

Kajack stared at him glassily. “Just take whatever fucking spells you put on me off me and let me _go!”_

Anaris laced his fingers together. His eyes became slits. “Kajack, Kajack, Kajack,” he mused. He began to pace the study. “What does your name mean? I know the prefix _kay_ means _woods,_ yes?” He waited, but Kajack did not answer. “I’m afraid I’ll have to study up on my Elvish. Your mother was never very forthcoming with her culture’s secrets.”

He came to a stop directly in front of Kajack and pivoted, slowly, on his heels to face him. “I have not had any spells put on you,” he said coldly. “I would consider it foolish to bind my successor with magic. The only things preventing you from crossing the boundaries of this estate are my word and my guards. And, soon—I hope—your brain.”

Kajack glared at him helplessly.

Anaris’s mouth twisted. “Well, you’ve made a real damn spectacle of yourself, that’s for sure. What am I going to do with you?”

He looked furious.

“Kajack, you do understand that these people are not loyal to _me,_ correct? They are loyal to my money. They do not love me. After the stunt you pulled today, Zhara may never work for me again.” He came closer. “I see that in your case money will not tempt you. With you, it will have to be love.”

“I will never love you,” Kajack snarled.

“You will love me,” said Anaris thoroughly. “As all young men rebel, so they must mature and settle. I did not love my own father until the end. Kajack. In time, you will come to realize what family means.” In his voice was a bardic layer of absolute honesty, as if the statement itself was inherently performative.

“Gods, you’re a prick!”

The spell was broken. Anaris settled into the chair at his desk, plucking at the tassels.

“And you will grow up, too, won’t you?” he continued. “Please, Kajack, no one appreciates your childish buffoonery, nor your empty grasping for insults. Just today, I have received complaints from Oliver, Monty—even Hugearmious. Your self-absorbed disregard for others is irritating at best.” He leaned forward and stared at Kajack coldly. “You are not precious.”

Kajack scoffed. He blinked rapidly and filled his voice with confidence. “Neither are you. You’re a sick man. Anytime you’re ready to give up on me and let me go is fine. I already have a father who is _proud_ to call me his son.”

Anaris raised one long, thin eyebrow. “I’d hate to meet that man.”

“I hope you do,” Kajack growled. “I hope he meets you. I hope he meets you so hard you feel it for the rest of your life.”

“Fine,” said Anaris coolly. “Hide behind your imaginary daddy, Kajack. Your flesh and blood is here, and he is waiting as patiently as he can for the day you let go of all this childish romanticism. I hate to succumb to the thrall of senseless clichés, but something about this one evokes a useful image: the apple doth not fall far from the tree.”

“But it can roll,” Kajack said. “And it can be eaten, and it can be picked up and put into baskets, and its seeds can be shat out all over the forest. You don’t get more trees if you choke the seedlings. Fuck you.” He was proud of this.

“Charming,” said Anaris. He looked entirely unbothered by the fact that Kajack was now leaning over him. “Are you done?”

Kajack blinked. “With you? Always!”

“But I am not,” said Anaris. He stood. He was much taller. “I wanted to see you in my study today as it was, even before your harebrained ‘escape.’ Will you be civil for one moment?”

“Oh, ew, are we really doing this?” It was a lame reply. Anaris ignored it.

“I want to talk about healthcare. Despite how I’m sure it seems to you, I do want you to be happy and healthy. I have scheduled you a physical later this week with my primary care provider. Is there any medication you need? We have contacts in Rasputina—whatever it is, we can get it for you. I don’t need to see a prescription.”

“I’m not discussing my medication with you,” Kajack cried.

“Then I suppose you can tell Dr. Taro in confidence when you meet with her later. I have no objection to patient confidentiality.”

Well, if his friends couldn’t break themselves out of prison and rescue him double quick, that doctor’s visit certainly set a deadline for Kajack’s grand escape. Smolls was the only doctor he trusted, and he was not ever having _that_ conversation with anyone but.


	8. Kajack Is Emotional

One thing Anaris’s little speech was very effective in doing was making Kajack feel horribly small and bad. He was already fighting a lump in his throat by the time he was deposited back in his marble bedroom at the top of the tower, and, when he heard the humiliating sound of the deadbolt sliding back into place—a literal nail in the coffin!—he threw himself onto the bed and wailed into the covers.

His sobs were interrupted by a knock a few minutes later. “Sir…? May I come in?”

Kajack grabbed a pillow and hurled it at the door. It was, of course, soft, so it just hit the wood and fell without a sound. There was a tense moment where Oliver was clearly hesitating between waiting for an answer and just coming in anyway.

“Fine,” Kajack said miserably, mopping his eyes. “Come in.”

Oliver edged into the room, looked momentarily thrown by the sight of Kajack crying, and then remembered himself and clicked the door shut behind him. “Are you… hmm. Are you all right? Erm—sir?”

Kajack burst into tears again. “Oliver,” he sobbed. “Do you hate me?”

There was a startled silence. “No!” Oliver said unconvincingly. “I—shit. Oh, gods.” They had been speaking in Mestrian; the expletive was in Elvish. He scrubbed his face. “Is this… ah, my apologies for my crass language, sir. Is this about… this morning? I did not mean to take such a harsh tone with you. I was just frustrated after the battle. Or did…” A light dawned on his face. “Did Lord Anaris say…?”

Kajack’s only response was a desperate muffled scream into the remaining pillow.

Oliver reluctantly took a seat on the bed next to Kajack. “I,” he began, “don’t know you well enough to hate you, sir. That is a fact. You haven’t been here two full days. If, um, you want my honest opinion…”

He waited, then apparently took Kajack’s silence as a motion to continue.

“I am—I _was_ Lord Anaris’s personal butler. I spent most of my time in his company and came to—well—tolerate him. I just do not like change, sir. I was comfortable there. So when my responsibilities were shifted to you, I naturally felt slightly bitter toward my lord, especially when I realized that you would, well, not make things easy for me. But I am more than happy to serve you, sir. You have done nothing wrong.”

His stuttering discomfort reminded Kajack strongly of Toulouse.

Kajack pushed himself up on his thin arms and raised his wet face high enough to look into Oliver’s. “I don’t _care_ if you don’t like me,” he said sharply. There was a horribly thick, sludgy concept sliding around in his brain like wet soap about economics and bosses and employees and politics of service, but he couldn’t find the words to reduce it to language. “I don’t care. You shouldn’t have to—it shouldn’t _matter!”_

“Well,” said Oliver. “All right.”

“Are you fucking my dad?”

 _“Excuse me?”_ said Oliver, looking aghast.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Kajack demanded.

“No!” Oliver stared at him in horror. Then he looked angry. “Oh my gods! _No!_ Why would you—listen, I just work for him! He pays me! I’m not his—no, look, I can’t even put into words how irresponsible that would be.”

Kajack pushed his thumbs into the corners of his own eye sockets and slumped back. “Huh.”

“How on earth did the concept even enter your mind?” said Oliver. “Sir,” he added hastily.

Kajack groaned. “He said something about your butt when I was talking to him yesterday and it made me wonder. I don’t remember.” He rolled over and shoved his face into the bedspread. “I’m hungry,” he moaned, helplessly reduced to the wants of a child. “I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” said Oliver. He made a small sound. “I’ll… I’ll bring up a more substantial breakfast for you. Er, I can tell you what happened to your friends, if it would make you feel better, but I’d have to ask around first. Since I left before it was over.”

“Yeah.”

Oliver returned half an hour later with a tray of various Elvish and human classics and the rumor that five very colorful individuals had attacked the estate at daybreak. Though the skirmish was quick and ultimately nonlethal, the Keepers had appeared on the scene shortly afterward and taken advantage of their weakened states to arrest all five of them. He did not know where the Keepers were holding them custody. Their weapons had been seized by Anaris’s personal militia, not the Keepers, so there was a chance that Kajack could claim the swords and bows and stuff on behalf of his friends later.

“Also,” said Oliver grimly, “do you know who Zhara is?”

Kajack nodded around the cranberry muffin he was eating.

“He’s a close personal friend of mine. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but while I was gathering information, I ducked out for a minute to check on him. He’s recovering, but you blasted him right down to zero hit points, and he would’ve died if we hadn’t had a good medic around. That’d be Taro,” he added. “Er, Dr. Liberty Taro, Lord Anaris’s personal doctor. Taro’s a Lumen sympathizer.”

Kajack’s ears pricked up.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” said Oliver.

Kajack was astounded by these admissions and told Oliver so.

“I… figure we’ve got to work together if we’re going to have any hope of a smooth partnership, sir,” said Oliver awkwardly. “My loyalty is tied to Lord Anaris, but I am also obliged to fulfill your needs. That _does not mean,”_ he said, pointedly, “that I can help you escape. But I can do other things.”

“Thank you,” said Kajack.

Oliver closed his eyes. “Lord Anaris has informed me that if you agree to wear the clothes he arranged for you, he will unlock your door, and you will once again be allowed to move freely about the estate. Since I now see that no one has outlined when and how physical force will be used against you, I will tell you that you can go within the limits demarcated by the buoys in the ocean to the west and the edge of the golf course to the east. The reason why Zhara attacked you today was because he suspected that you were going to cross the estate boundary. As long as you do not try to escape, nor give anyone any reason to think you are trying to escape, you should not have to worry about being hurt again.”

“None of this matters to me,” said Kajack languidly. “Because I’m not putting on his dumb clothes.”

Oliver opened his eyes. “What? Sir, you can’t—” He seemed to realize that arguing would not work. “Fine. But I warn you, Lord Anaris has been known to deny people food when they do not behave the way he wants. You’re going to have to learn to compromise.”

“He won’t kill me,” said Kajack carelessly. Oliver just looked at him. “I’ve starved before. We’ll see who holds out longest, me or him.”

It is very easy for a person to make a commitment like that when they are sitting in a warm bedroom with a full breakfast tray balanced on their lap. It soon became clear that Kajack was no longer an adrenal teenager with a shrunken stomach, defiantly skipping meals and hiking for hours on a single piece of bread. But he did not even make it to evening before boredom—the real killer—sunk in. There was nothing to do but mope around and worry and prepare Sending spells that no one actually replied to and therefore felt useless.

He sent two, each excruciatingly hobbled by the twenty-five-word limit.

To Gwen:

_Held as prisoner in Bellichi; Anaris estate. Delta squad captured by Keepers. Weapons taken away. Sorry. Hope your day is well. Do send help though._

To the Delta squad, but more specifically to Luma:

_Thanks for the rescue effort. I’m not in immediate danger. Please escape Keepers posthaste. I can’t help from here but I’ve contacted Gwen. Love you._

Oliver brought him a wide array of cheeses and meats for lunch, but Kajack halfheartedly rejected them all, more committed to indulging his gloom than his impromptu hunger strike.

When, at around four in the afternoon, Oliver casually mentioned the estate’s private library, Kajack finally snapped.

“Gimme the shirt,” he said. “So, he wants me to dress like some preppy rich kid with a pearl fetish, huh? Well, fine. I’ll look ravishing anyway.”

Oliver inquired if he had ever worn a _leibau_ before.

“Lee bow,” said Kajack doubtfully.

“It’s a type of doublet shirt. Dwarven in origin, I believe. I suspect he gave you a needlessly complex wardrobe in an effort to show off. Well, if you’ve never worn one before, you’ll need help.” Oliver moved forward, grasping, businesslike, at Kajack’s tunic.

Kajack punched his hand away and sprang back. “No!”

“There is no need to be embarrassed, sir.” Oliver looked tired. “I’ve helped with dressing nobility countless times—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Kajack hissed. “You’re thinking, ‘Oh, of course, even this has to be a _production._ We can’t even put on clothes without Kajack making it _difficult.’_ But _this is my body, Oliver._ It’s all I have.”

Oliver stared at him.

Kajack quieted. “Just walk me through it,” he pleaded. “If it’s really that hard to put on the stupid thing, just turn your back and explain how to do each step.”

The _leibau_ was apparently meant to be worn as if it had been painted on. Every curve on Kajack’s upper body was enhanced. He had never bound his chest before. His breasts were small and easily concealed under bulkier clothing, and he often forgot he had them, but this shirt, which had been tailored to fit a slim, flat chest, threatened to burst open when buttoned closed. He was reduced to wrapping a tight piece of cloth around his chest behind the blind that Oliver had humbly put up. It was like an unfriendly, restrictive second skin, and he felt more naked than before.

The pants presented another problem. They were tight enough to display certain presences and absences. Kajack surrendered his dignity and balled up a sock. He wasn’t sure who in the world would laugh at him for it, but it still gripped him with a tiny, hot humiliation.

“You look fine,” said Oliver. He swept his gaze over Kajack and quickly looked away. “The picture of nobility.”

“Oh, don’t,” snapped Kajack. “I look like a mess.” The thin ornamental ruffles on his shirt flapped when he moved, like useless antennae. “This sucks. I can’t _move_ in this. It’s like a corset.”

He’d hidden Kretz’s sister’s sweater under his pillow with Luma’s bracelet. Part of it was very much an act of surrender. It meant he’d have to run back up to his room and retrieve his treasures before he could make any more escape attempts.

“Better than a _þresle,”_ murmured Oliver. “That’s what Lord Anaris wears to charity functions, and… let me tell you, it was a nightmare getting him into that thing every evening.” Oliver smiled at him for the first time ever. His teeth were charmingly crooked, so Kajack reluctantly smiled back. “You’re doing very well, sir. I mean that.”

Kajack quickly looked away. “I am sick of this room,” he said, in a lighter tone than he’d worn all day. “I’m going to explore the house. Is there anything else I should know? Y’know, anyone I shouldn’t piss off?”

“In my opinion, sir,” said Oliver wearily, “there are very few people in the world who you _should_ ‘piss off’.”


	9. The Garden

Oliver ended up taking him on a tour of the estate. Now that things had settled down, everyone seemed really eager for a do-over. One of the other servants nodded and curtsied when they passed. The tiefling girl, whom Kajack suddenly recognized as the same black-eyed tiefling from the waterfront, smiled tentatively at him before ducking her three-horned head and then herself into a nearby laundry room. Her skin had been blue before. Now it was violently pink.

“And this,” said Oliver, waving a hand in the direction of yet another heavy, ornate door, “is the way down to the private docks. In addition to a bodyguard’s typical duties, Hugo also commands Lord Anaris’s fleet, so he’s very busy. But he’s expressed an interest in, heh, literally showing you the ropes sometime. You might take him up on it the next time boredom looms.”

Kajack stared blankly. _“Hugearmious?”_

“Yes?”

“But he…” Kajack hesitated. He eventually settled on saying, “But my dad said he sent in a complaint about me.”

“Did he? And here is the Lord’s study, which you have already—”

“I want to know why Hugearmious would want to spend time with me,” Kajack persisted. “I know he doesn’t like me. Would he kill me? It’s so easy to make boat stuff look like an accident—”

Oliver gave him a long look. “Sir. If I know Hugo, it’s more likely his complaint was about the effort it took to bring you in. Besides, if he scares you so much, just stay clear of him. You have that freedom. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I’m not scared of him,” said Kajack wildly. “I’m just—confused!”

“Yes, sir. And here is the door to our kitchens. You are free to go in, though I’d suggest you try not to bother the staff.” Oliver moved so briskly and easily that if Kajack were studying his gait alone, he’d think Oliver were the lord. “I don’t think there’s a single place in this estate that you are not allowed to visit. Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “The guest chambers. Lord Anaris is frequently visited by aristocracy and military leaders, and their guards will not allow you in without permission.”

“Why don’t _I_ get guards?”

“You do, sir. Me. And I have by default disallowed all guests, save for myself and Montgomery—the housekeeper—from entering your room. Even your father cannot come in unless you let him.”

“You’re a real one, Oliver!” said Kajack, cheered by this. “Ooh, does that mean your bedroom is near mine?”

Oliver stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. “Um. Yes.”

“Cool! Where—”

“This is the botanical garden,” said Oliver loudly. He cleared his throat. “You will come to find that Lord Anaris has most of his estate’s supplies ordered in from various offshore countries—”

 _“Offshore countries?_ You mean _islands?”_

Oliver grumbled. “I meant companies. Apologies. I misspoke. As I was saying, the Lord orders in his other supplies, but spell components and basic medicinal plants are grown right here. He is very particular about it. Have you ever heard of the Masked Moonflower, sir?”

Kajack blinked. “Y… yes?”

Yeah, he knew about the Masked Moonflower, in much the same way the rest of the Delta squad knew about BODE. None of them ever _said_ anything, but there would be a wink, an eyebrow waggle, a “gosh, Luma, too bad you missed that exciting museum heist!” And then there was the simple fact that rogues didn’t learn rogue stuff, like Thieves’ Cant or lockpicking, without earning the kind of reputation you would need a secret identity for. He wandered deeper into the garden and touched the lips of a silver flower. “I have heard of them,” he said.

Oliver made a _hmm_ sound. When Kajack turned to look at him, he was tracing the tip of his finger lightly along the branch of a stubby grey tree.

“Some years ago,” said Oliver, “this—individual—was able to get past our guards. Your father was at that time taking a potion to improve a… medical condition of his, but because we had no potion brewery, he had to outsource its production. We strongly believe that it was the Masked Moonflower who tampered with your father’s potion and mixed in a sleeping draft, because, one night, when he could not be woken by any of our staff, that dastardly thief broke in and stole—among other things—a piece of jewelry that Lord Anaris had intended to use to win the heart of the Lady Weivieria of the city-state Ta’aslé in Sarzaya.”

“Say that name again,” Kajack demanded sharply. “How do you say that?”

“Pardon? The Lady, or—”

“Yes.”

“Weigh-vee-area,” Oliver enunciated slowly. “She was allergic to cats, you see, which made the traditional gift of a kitten impossible. Of course, the Lady refused his hand in marriage when he was unable to present her with a fitting engagement gift. He always said that if he could only get that priceless opal necklace back, she would change her mind.”

Kajack decided not to tell Oliver that the Lady Weivieria of Ta’aslé’s priceless opal necklace was probably the same one currently dangling from his armoire back home in the Lumen base. Small world, Mestrus. And yet.

“It’s a beautiful place,” he said eventually. He meant the garden, and it was. After all the hard cold marble and the dull mowed grass and the endless parade of forbidding doors, he was stuck where he was standing, staring at the drifting fairy seeds and the wet vines glittering in the weak sun, as if the weakly thumping heart of Makah could generate the key to his escape.

“Yes,” Oliver agreed fondly. “He can be difficult, but the old man does come up with good ideas once in a while. Er. Shall I… leave you here, sir?”

“Yeah,” said Kajack. His voice felt thick and soft to his own ears. “Thank you.”

He let himself fall onto a nearby stump, all at once uncaring of whether Oliver actually walked away and left him alone. A fat purple spider was twirling slow and ungracefully down from the heavens. Kajack looked down and discovered a pale white butterfly crawling across his knuckle, fanning its wings. The air was sweet and salty. It hummed.

Kajack felt something weighty tug deep behind his groin, and another, at the same time, in the shallows of his eyes. He damply dragged his hand across his cheek. As the butterfly floated away, lazy, as if flapping its wings through water, he quietly sang:

_O you dangerous black-eyed thing,_

_Won’t you wine me and dine me and tie me with string,_

_For you move like a swordfish_

_And hunt like the sea_

_And put something sharp and rotten in me._

_But win me, troubadour, if you might,_

_For I feel your eyes on me dangerous white,_

_And you’re big as an oarfish_

_And blunt as a skunk_

_And I’m thinking I might like you better when drunk._

_Meadowgrass and fire, rye, air and understitch_

_I smell like desire, you taste like a perfect pitch_

_Chase me boy, and chase me right,_

_Kiss my hands, scratch my itch,_

_Pull me down into the grass_

_And throw me down the ditch._

_O kingly conspicuous gold-faced throne,_

_Won’t you handsome and prancesome and leave me alone_

_’Cause you’re red like an apple,_

_Not green like a me_

_Though you taste like the sun, you’re as cold as the sea._

_But win me, seducer, if you must,_

_I’ll sweep you away like a pile of dust,_

_I won’t stand in your chapel_

_But I love like a beast_

_And whenever I come, I come last but not least._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to:  
> \- Akira for naming Lady Weivieria!  
> \- Colleen for coming up with a tune!


	10. Compromises

Kajack was very unused to moving about the demesne without a chaperone. Twice he got lost. Even as he prowled the dim, flickering hallways, harried forth by the far-off domestic jumble of voices muffled through the walls and floorboards, he was half-convinced a guard or Zhara or Hugearmious would explode out of nowhere and pin him against a wall.

The estate went on into the dungeons. A labyrinth of corridors and tunnels and stairwells entrapped and befuddled Kajack, who just stood there sweating. He wasn’t even claustrophobic. The elf in him disliked the way the earth squeezed in all around him, halted only by the polished stone.

And then, at once, as if some prompt had stolen into his head, he scuttled across the hallway and flung open the most interesting-looking door.

He put his hands over his mouth and nose. It must (he decided) be Anaris’s bedroom. The musky scent of roses inveigled Kajack like a predator pawing through the underbrush. The world glittered more intimately here than it had in the study or the other chambers Kajack had seen, as if only in his private rooms did Anaris shed the layers around his selfhood, and it was also darker, because of course there were no windows. Rich, dusty tapestries and thick-framed paintings hung on the polished walls like diamonds in a cave.

On one side of the room was a wide four-poster bed, elegantly carved in the same style Kajack had seen on board the _Unity._ The bed smelled even stronger.

Feeling very much like an inexperienced burglar, Kajack crept into the room, morbidly interested. There was a cloth-bound little book lying open on the armoire. It was a quarto copy of an Eaoduinian play called _The Weeping Lily._ He opened it to a random page and read:

> JESTER Return, return! I die without you. Who am I now? Not one more quip or witticism left in me. I would that I could die here, in her glade.
> 
> GHOST Dry your tears, tender clown. Listen: listen: the birds are crying. Can you hear the chirps and wings, my darling Micledes?
> 
> JESTER It is dawn.—The world’s been butchered. There’s nothing left in it for wretchéd me.

Kajack closed the book. He picked up a silver signet ring from the nightstand with two fingers and peered at it. It bore the delicately carved oval image of an alligator.

Then he had to really restrain himself from flinging open the wardrobe and yanking out robes and coats and ripping them up. In fact, he had actually cracked open the wardrobe door and was staring hatefully at a white ruffled silk shirt, considering all the ways he could “accidentally” spill something on it and ruin it, when the bedroom door opened.

Reality streamed in. “Good afternoon, Kajack,” said Anaris.

Kajack yelped and spun around, smacking the bony part of his hand hard against the wardrobe. “You!”

“Watch your tone, boy.”

“Watch _yours!”_

The gleam from the high yellow candle Anaris was holding glinted off his lower lip like the flash of a knife. “I was patient with you earlier because you were under a great deal of distress and could not be held accountable for your words or actions. I will not be so patient now.”

Kajack rolled his eyes, rubbing his hand.

“I have received notice,” Anaris continued, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him, “that your friends will be executed at dawn tomorrow for treason.” He pulled a thin red envelope out of his breast pocket and extended it to Kajack, who took it, feeling cold. It looked official. Kajack had seen some Keeper postage when he was posing as a soldier in the military, and it was the same seal on the envelope.

He looked up.

If Kajack didn’t know better—and maybe he didn’t—he’d say there was a spark of sincere sorrow behind Anaris’s eyes. Anaris said quietly, “I have no grudge against the Lumen, Kajack. They are what brought you back to me. Therefore I am willing to make a deal with you. If you accompany me to dinner and act charming— _my_ interpretation of ‘charming’, Kajack! _Not_ yours—I will pull some strings and delay your friends’ executions long enough for them to escape. Do you understand?”

Kajack looked around wildly, trying to shake himself free of the panic. “What?” he cried. “What, um, how can I save them? What’d you say, what do I gotta do?”

“Ah, of course!” said Anaris, smiling. “Yes, I understand how this offer would make you emotional. Just wear what I say, act how I tell you to, and eat with grace. Oh, and how about a song? An _appropriate_ song, Kajack. None of that screechy shit you used to sing in that godawful band.”

This flung Kajack off the hinge. “You are a sick, uncultured, stupid man,” he spat. “And you don’t know music!”

The room became chilly. Anaris raised a hand. “That is strike one. Two more and I will withdraw my offer. For now I will be gracious and pretend I did not hear you. Well? A civil dinner, your most impeccable manners, and perhaps a pleasant song for the womenfolk. In exchange, your friends’ lives. Think carefully.”

Kajack looked at him. “Okay.”

“When speaking to me, you will say ‘Yes, Father’ or ‘Yes, my lord’.”

“Yes, Father,” Kajack repeated.

Anaris walked over to his desk in the corner and scribbled something on a piece of parchment. “Well, dinner begins in an hour. Go to your room and get ready. I’ll make sure Oliver brings you your eveningwear.” Kajack groaned internally. “Now, I just came down here to pick up some personal effects, but I’ll be in my study if you have any questions. Feel free to drop by. If you need help deciding which perfumes to use, I have stocked your powder-room with some of my own personal favorites—”

Kajack spent exactly half a second reflecting that General Kretz would never take the nonsensical liberty of trying to smell the same as his adopted son without permission, and then he said, “Ew, no! I’ll figure it out myself, thanks!” and hustled out into the hallway before Anaris could call in any more strikes.

Instead of returning to his bedroom right away, he found a dark corner and curled up against the stone and tried to cry. He could no longer summon tears. His eyes were sore and snot was coming out of his face in all directions, but he’d exhausted himself of crying, and screwing his face up only made it hurt worse.

Okay, fine, then. Time to go to war. All Kajack had to do to save his friends was dredge up a passable imitation of etiquette, or, in other words, not be a brat, for an hour and a half. This was daunting. Kajack had always put his elbows on the table and had never known different.

He was nearing the stairs to the second floor when Hugearmious reached out from the shadows. Kajack didn’t quite see his life flash before his eyes, because that would have taken a great deal more self-awareness, but he did shrink away from the massive treelike arm and open his mouth and let out a long, voiceless scream.

“What?” he squeaked. “What do you want?”

Hugearmious’s eyes dimmed. “Just wonderin’ if yeh’d like ter learn how to sail a ship ternight,” it—he?—mumbled, with something approaching contrition.

“I can’t,” Kajack wailed. “My stupid fucking dad is forcing me to come to his stupid fucking dinner party. I can’t do anything fun! Gods, I hate him!”

He aimed a kick at the wall. It was stone. He hopped around, clutching his foot and swearing loudly.

“I’m not busy,” Hugearmious said, blinking in a suddenly owlish way. “Got a sloop rigged out in the bay right now an’ everythin’. It’s a clear night. No rain.”

Kajack slowly lowered his injured foot back onto the ground and winced. “I… huh. Actually, I—I could ask him. Um. If you’d wait here…”

He turned around and walked very quickly. As soon as he went around the corner, he broke into a run. He sprinted faster than he could ever remember running in his life. He was already halfway down the stairs to the dungeons before he abruptly remembered that Anaris had said he would be in his study. Panting, he ran up the stairs again, skidded past the door, ran back, and flung it open.

Anaris looked up, quite surprised. When he saw it was Kajack, he only raised an eyebrow and made no comment.

“You said if I accompanied you to dinner you’d save my friends,” Kajack panted, “but you never said it had to be dinner _tonight.”_ He explained himself. Bards had a thing for specific wording, just like fairies and cops.

“What? Kajack. I deliberately invited guests tonight who I wanted you to meet.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to do that!”

“That’s strike two,” said Anaris, and Kajack quieted immediately. “Oh, fine. Go out and learn how to sail. It’s a useful skill for any man, gentry or otherwise. Were I not already bound to other obligations, I should like to come with you.” He picked up his pen and bent over the book he had open.

“Really?”

“Goodness, Kajack, you look like a drowned puppy. Yes, _really.”_

“You’ll still save my friends, though,” said Kajack quickly. “Father?”

Anaris closed his eyes in annoyance. “Yes. If you agree to come to dinner tomorrow night _and behave,_ I will delay their executions.”

“I agree, Father,” said Kajack fervently, feeling rather as if he was asking for permission to stay out past his curfew. “Thanks.”

Anaris smiled at him. “Well! With that over with, did you require anything else of me?”

“No,” said Kajack, then, quickly, “Father.” He tried to think of a stuffy way to say goodbye that his father wouldn’t arbitrarily interpret as a rude comment. “I will take my leave now. Uh. Good evening.” And he turned.

“Wait,” his father called, frowning. “You look tired, boy. Have you eaten?”

“No,” said Kajack, because he hadn’t. Then it occurred to him that Anaris might use this new piece of information to order him to come to dinner after all, and he panicked.

But Anaris only slid a bookmark into the book he had open, closed the book, and looked up with a beatific smile. “Then if you and Hugo—er, Hugearmious, sorry—are willing to wait ten minutes before you leave, I’ll get Oliver to rustle something up and send it along with you. How is that?”

Kajack didn’t know what to say. He just stared at Anaris, distressed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Anaris, still smiling, hand still resting on his book. Kajack nodded and shuffled out the door, both triumphant and embarrassed.

He sped down the thin corridor and nearly slammed into Hugearmious. He quivered backward and summoned up his best winning smile. “We’re goochy!” he cried. Gosh. He could see his face reflected in those big red eyes. “Let’s go!”

“Have everything yeh need?” asked the minotaur in its low, dark thunder.

Kajack waved a hand impatiently. “My dad doesn’t want me to faint on the boat or whatever, so he’s making me bring a lunchbox, but yes, I’m ready!” Then he immediately changed his mind. “Um! No, I’m not ready! Wait here!”

He spun on his heels and blasted up the tower stairs to his chambers.

It wouldn’t be the same if you or I were kidnapped. Maybe a little closer if the clothes we’d been forced to take off and hide were handmade or otherwise irreplaceable. He could _not_ look at Kretz’s disappointed face—which the dear man would surely hide after the first humiliating flash, really grateful only that Kajack had come back alive—when he realized this stupid little elf had forgotten the only thing he had left of his sister. And Luma had built that bracelet out of pendants and cheap plastic beads they’d found in Kajack’s _trash,_ or under his bed, or in little novelty shops that made them think of him. Really. And they’d had it enchanted. The world he lived in was built on knobbly little gifts and humble treasures and if there were even the slightest chance he could knock Hugearmious out with the anchor and take control of the boat, he would not do it in silks.

His vision was going in and out by the time he reached the top—the _leibau_ made it hard to get enough air into his lungs to run around—but Kajack was no stranger to his body’s limits, and he was still a mile off from losing consciousness, so he ignored it and burst into his bedroom, gasping, sweltering, near collapse.

His treasures were still folded lovingly beneath the pillow, exactly where they belonged.


	11. Sailing With Hugearmious

A sense of nausea similar to vertigo overcame Kajack as he looked down at the gap between the dock and the sloop. The water lapped ten feet down, blue and clear, entirely nonthreatening, but Kajack could not tear his eyes away from it. His heart pounded and his head felt light.

Hugearmious extended his hand-like hoof to Kajack and tossed his head with a snort.

“Oh,” said Kajack. He gingerly took the creature’s proffered hand and, careful of the guardrail, stepped lightly off the dock and onto the deck of the boat, incredulous that he was more scared of the water than of the minotaur. Then he felt much steadier. “Um, thanks! How often do you have to go out on the water? Do you, like, sleep out here?”

“I go fer supply runs with the boys,” said Hugearmious. “Only a coupla hours to cross the bay an’ back, if the wind’s on our side.”

Kajack leaned out over the guardrail and thought of himself as the subject of a beautiful painting. “Ooh, could we do that? I want to see Orilon from the water! There was an adorable little charms shop by the bay that I never got to—”

“Can’t take yeh beyond the markers,” Hugearmious rumbled. He waved his great iron hand in the direction of a bobbing buoy.

Kajack batted his eyelashes and pouted. “Hugo! Please! If I’m learning how to sail, I’m hardly going to get any experience staying in daddy’s yard! And Lord Anaris doesn’t have to know. I’m no snitch.” He winked.

As ploys went, asking to be ferried across the cove was probably not it. Kajack half-expected to be knocked on his ass for even trying. But then Hugearmious looked out over the great sea and nodded slowly, silently.

“I won’t take yeh to the coast,” he said. “I know yer tryin’ to escape, not that I blame yeh. But yer right. There ain’t no winds this close to shore. We gotta get further out.”

Kajack clapped his hands and darted over to the anchor. “Hooray! Just tell me what to do!”

“Start by takin’ yer damn shirt off,” Hugearmious growled, seizing a rope and gliding across the sloop with more care than Kajack had thought possible. “Yer gonna rip it open or pass out. The thing’s a death trap.”

Kajack gladly leapt out of the boat, darted behind a tree at the end of the dock, and began to wriggle out of the hellish eggshell monster and the homemade binder beneath with the general thrashing of a hero trying to escape a dragon’s stomach. This process took ten sweaty, reddened minutes. Halfway through, he swore he heard a girl giggling in the spiny brush, but when he jerked and turned, there was nobody there.

When he was back on the boat—sweatered again and breathing easier for it—Hugearmious stumped over and tossed a wet rope in his direction. “Pull,” he grunted.

He wasn’t very forthcoming about vocabulary or technique. He’d call to tack the boat, for instance, and Kajack, breathless and harried, would have either forgotten what tacking was or what his role was supposed to be in it, and then the minotaur would glare at him and refuse to explain again. The first time Kajack successfully trimmed a sail, he was excruciatingly disappointed by the lack of positive feedback. Hugearmious gave up on knots after the first try.

He wasn’t murderous, either. Kajack’s dalliance between the creature’s chitinous hands and the deck of the _Unity_ was still painfully fresh on his crushed ribs, but he only had so long a memory, and forgiveness (he thought) came easy when you had absolutely no ground to give. But even mentioning it brought on a dark, brooding, frightening glare from the other end of the sloop, so Kajack shut up after that.

The boat was called _Lady Wei._

“We got ’er from a ship-chandler out in Kroshah,” said Hugearmious, whose hulking frame was only offset by his brightened eyes. Now they were sitting, cross-legged, on the bare deck of the sloop, chewing through the salt-beef-and-mustard sandwiches Oliver had packed and passing back and forth a flask of something that gave Kajack the sensation that there were burning rocks in his chest. It was a cloudless night. The stars were out; the moon glacé.

“Kroshah,” mused Kajack, who had no idea where that was.

“Me n’ Val were East gettin’—well, a kid like yeh doesn’t need ter know. We needed a boat an’ this little lass with the palest hair…” Hugearmious took another long pull of the flask. “Val took a likin’ to her right away. He said, If yeh can get us a boat with that pretty smile, lady, we’ll take yeh wher’ver yeh wanter go. Weivieria,” he said clearly. “She tol’ him he could stuff the boat. But she came back to us hours later an’ said she found one anyway.”

“Wavy area,” said Kajack sleepily.

“Ever seen ’er?” Hugearmious said thickly. “Only girl in Ta’aslé worth a damn. An’… beautiful eye. Shame Val couldn’ keep her… Yeh got a girlfriend, Jack?”

Kajack sat up very straight, blinking. He looked at Hugearmious with round eyes. Then he slumped back down and touched the sleek surface of his own outer thigh. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Whas she like?”

He wriggled himself deeper into the neck of his sweater so that it was covering his mouth and nose, pulled his knees tight to his chest, and wrapped his arms around himself. “Beautiful,” he said. The word was muffled by the thick fabric. “Half-elf, like me, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. Pink hair. Eyes that make me want to be—better—”

Kajack couldn’t go on. So much a man, scruff and sweat, eyes that burned, rough hands and long bony feet. He was probably so worried. Then he felt horribly sick, and the wind, instead of remaining a soothing breeze on his flushed face, was beginning to whip through his sweater like an icicle. He crawled to the edge of the boat and vomited noisily over the side.

Hugearmious squinted at the flask.

“Shouldn’t’ve fed a noble rotgut,” he murmured. “Sorry. I keep tellin’ meself.”

Kajack wiped his mouth.

Then Hugearmious leapt to his enormous hooves and stared out at the sea. (Kajack peacefully watched his muscles ripple from the floor.) “Fuck!”

Kajack grabbed the edge of Hugearmious’s belt, pulled himself high enough to see over the railing, and peeked around his new friend’s girth. At first, he saw nothing at all, but then a breeze pushed a cloud to the side, and the light of the moon glinted off something big on the horizon. Suddenly Kajack was blinking at the bulbous black outline of a larger boat. It was getting closer. Slim black poles were extending from its sides.

He gasped. “Are they pirates?”

“I know these guys,” Hugearmious growled. “That’s the _Nine Hells._ Crew calls ’emselves Beaks, come from the East, try to kidnap the men an’ steal my goods. That Ravy bastard Azena…”

His nostrils flared out, and he stomped the deck of the boat heavily. “Raleil above! We ain’t prepared fer this. Sober up an’ help me turn around.”

Kajack got to his feet and ran to the mast. He had not so much as touched a rope when an impossibly loud BOOM threw him to the deck again, as if the cannon blast had picked him up and skipped him like a rock. Hugearmious grabbed him, full-fisted, by the back of his sweater and tipped him up on his feet, then bounded across the sloop to the bow, moving with more agility and urgency than Kajack had ever seen from someone of his size.

“Sheet the mainsail,” Hugearmious barked. Then he added to himself in a much quieter voice that Kajack barely heard, “This’s gonna be rough.”


	12. Pirates

It was. The other boat was on them before they had the chance to get moving. It drew up to them, broadside, like a stalking tiger, well within cannon range but too far for Kajack to see or hear anything on the other deck.

Kajack wondered if letting himself get captured by pirates was a good or bad idea.

“Watch fer flashes o’ light an’ get down if yeh see any,” grunted Hugearmious. Kajack was about to ask what he meant when he saw it: a bright, sudden blaze near the cannons on the other boat—BOOM!—and less than a split second later, a cannonball spinning wildly towards them, only a little slower than a bullet.

It slammed into the side of the ship and punched a hole through their hull. Kajack felt the impact in his feet, and for a moment he was falling.

“Minor damage,” said Hugearmious impatiently, “and we’ll take on water, but we can bail it out. Wind’s changed! Prepare to jibe!”

Kajack scrambled to the sails.

The next few minutes were tense. Hugearmious did not speak again. Kajack kept his mouth shut and focused on hauling in the sail.

Then there was a flash on the horizon. Through some clairvoyant gleam of comprehension, Kajack turned to look at Hugearmious just as the cannonball plowed through and impacted squarely in the center of the latter’s vast chest, sending him sprawling out backward with a surprised expression. His feet left the ground. For a second, he hung in the air, waving his arms blindly, eyes bulging out. Then Kajack blinked, and Hugearmious was gone. There was an enormous splash over the side of the boat.

Kajack ran to the guardrail. Hugearmious was sinking. He caught a glimpse of Hugearmious’s muzzle ghoulishly drifting just below the surface, corpse-like, before a wave slopped over and obscured him from view.

Kajack whipped his head around to look at the other boat. It wasn’t any closer than before, but then of course it couldn’t gain on them while its broadside was facing _Lady Wei._ He tried to think. Um, um, um, he couldn’t swim. Even if he could, he wasn’t strong enough to pull Hugearmious out of the water. Feather Fall? That was for people who were falling through air, not water. Mage Hand? It could only carry up to ten pounds. Cure Wounds? That would be useful, but he’d have to get Hugearmious stabilized and breathing first!

He patted his entire body down.

The bracelet. Luma’s bracelet. That was a start. He could cast Warding Bond with it, and it would give his target advantage on saving throws—which included death saving throws—but in order to cast it, he would have to physically touch Hugearmious. Kajack gulped.

There was another flash of light from the other boat. Kajack threw himself to the deck. A cannonball whistled over his head and grazed the mast, tipping the whole sloop dangerously to one side. Kajack gasped as he slid down the slick wood. The boat hadn’t capsized, and he didn’t think it was going to, but now the edge of the deck was right up against the surface of the sea, so he plunged his arm through the guardrail into the water—icy cold; it left him shocked—and groped around, submerged up to the armpit. All he felt was empty ocean.

Wait!

He cast Mage Hand. The glittering pink construct spun into being at once from a thousand magical strands and snatched up a nearby rope. As the boat began to tip back, Kajack flexed deep within, and the magical fist splashed into the ocean in the approximate area where Hugearmious had fallen.

 _Lady Wei_ slammed back down, slapping the water with her hull and nearly catapulting Kajack upwards.

Through the thrumming threads of magic encircling him, Kajack felt the Mage Hand encounter something solid. He cried out and grabbed at it. Now, how did a bowline knot go? Could he even do that with one hand? He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it with two—

An echoing voice dripped across the ocean in clear, genderless tones. “Surrender. Fly your white flag and we will ceasefire.”

But Kajack was already on his feet again and seizing the other end of the rope. He cut it down to about thirty, twenty-five feet long and ran it around the mast.

Now he needed something heavy. He wrapped his thin fingers around the crossbar of the anchor and heaved as hard as he could and immediately felt a _pop_ in his shoulders as his arm almost dislocated. He blinked. Too heavy. Kajack looked around wildly. Didn’t ships have ballast or something? He kicked open a trapdoor in the deck near the bow and was, for the first and last time in his life, elated by the sight of a pile of sandbags.

Kajack heaved one of the sandbags, which was impossibly, cartoonishly heavy, out of its chamber and tied the other end of the rope to it. Then, gritting his teeth, he walked it over to the side of the boat, straining to inch the immense weight forward.

“Gods alive!” he hissed. “C’mon—”

He had to roll it up halfway over the guardrail, then squeeze his entire body under it and press upwards, just like Larkren or Viridios with their squats and their barbells in the gym, but then all at once the pressure was gone and there was an enormous splash that rocked the boat backward.

Kajack ducked out of the way of the rope, which was now taut, as the simple machine of the pulley did its job. It wasn’t enough. Panting, Kajack ran around the mast—which was beginning to make worrying creaking and cracking sounds—to the other side of the rope and pulled, digging his heels into the deck, to add his own body weight to the work of the sandbag. It was eerie. Just by putting his hands on the rope, he could feel the great presence of whatever he’d tied it to moving upward through the water.

“No?” the other ship echoed across the ocean at him. “Then we take no prisoners. Get ’em, boys.”

Hugearmious’s limp hand and wrist broke the surface. Kajack reached down over the guardrail and grabbed him and pulled with all his might. At last, the giant began to rise through the air like a sopping, ungainly angel.

Kajack thought in a panic that he had no idea how to do CPR on a minotaur. But then Hugearmious was out of the water and spilling across the deck like a pile of wet sacks, and the weight of the sandbag was still dragging him toward the mast, so Kajack slashed at the rope and sent the sandbag plummeting to the ocean floor. The boat rocked from the whiplash.

Another flash of light. Another cannonball. This one crashed into _Lady Wei’s_ bow and splintered it, sending her spinning, but a lucky outcome of this was that the broadside of the sloop was no longer vulnerable to the other boat, and they were pointed in the right direction to flee. Kajack ignored all this and rolled Hugearmious onto his back. He put his hands over where he guessed Hugearmious’s heart would be and started to pump. He panicked. What beat was it again? Oh, oh, right, it would be the same beat as “To the Wicked,” which Monroe had written just before everything went to hell—

He had to sing out loud to keep time. The ridiculous, frivolous, meaningless lyrics met the backdrop of erupting cannons with outlandish comedy. His voice was wavering all over, dipping and rising in all the wrong places, but he kept on pumping, pressing, squeezing the great minotaur’s heart in rhythm to the song:

_Oh, baby, watch out! There be sharks in the sea_

_And they’re surfing the suckers between you and me…_

Hugearmious’s lips twitched. Then a stream of water blasted from his nostrils and soaked Kajack to the skin. Hugearmious choked and spat, vomited, and then rolled over onto his side and continued to gush water from his nose and mouth. Kajack still couldn’t believe all was well, so he crouched over him, gazing anxiously at his chest, which wasn’t rising. Hugearmious finally drew in a raggedy, wet, painful breath, and then another, clearer. Kajack flopped backward, so relieved.

Hugearmious sat bolt upright at the sound of the cannons. “The Beaks,” he rasped. “We gotter get out a here.”

“Wait, let me heal you,” cried Kajack. He put his hand on Hugearmious’s giant tit and began to summon the swirl of sparkling pink, but Hugearmious impatiently pushed him down and climbed to his hooves.

“No!” he barked. “Get up an’ help. The wind’s on our side.”

Kajack really tried. He followed orders. He tied ropes and adjusted the sails and walked around like a real person instead of scampering or scrambling. But his skin was hot and clammy. A sick, pounding dizziness had infested his brain from the moment Hugearmious went over. The song he’d been singing was swooping around his head, faster and faster, as if he were still kneeling on the wet, slippery deck, struggling to revive the drowned Hugearmious. He was on the edge of tears.

“I will be back!” called the voice from the other ship. “This is not the last you have seen of me…”

As their sloop began to pick up speed, and as the other boat—bigger and slower and not as quick to turn—disappeared into the gloom behind them, Kajack, silently, without crying out, without calling attention to himself, released his grip on the ropes and fell to his knees and collapsed.


	13. Kajack Meets an Old Friend

Lord Anaris adjusted himself in the mirror. He winced, cupped his crotch delicately with one manicured hand, turned to the side, and tilted his head in critical analysis. His beard was getting long again; he’d have to have Oliver cut it. He possessed a pair of very pale eyes and had been privately disappointed to find that Kajack had inherited Rhea’s darker ones instead. He looked into them and smiled.

Then he opened the portal from his wardrobe to his study and gracefully stepped out onto the rug.

“How is Hugearmious?” he said, crossing over to the window immediately.

Dr. Taro’s lip trembled. “He’s doing well,” she said. “My lord, if I could please—”

“And our young man?”

“Mr. Anaris is still unconscious,” said Dr. Taro. She was a thin, tall, willowy, delicate-looking human woman with enormous spectacles. At the moment, she was clutching a tray full of mugs of tea tight to her breast like a shield and making absolutely no move to put it down. She had seen Anaris face the window, unmoving, with his hands clasped behind his back like he was doing now many times before; and she knew what it meant. “He is stable and will recover. Resuscitating a drowning victim takes an immense physical and mental toll, my lord. You cannot expect—”

“When will he wake up?”

“I do not know,” said Taro, with all the discomfort of an entomologist pressed to answer in exact terms when a newly discovered butterfly would emerge from its chrysalis. “My lord, I find it prudent to remind you that the boy is not trying to spite you personally. If he wanted to inconvenience you—”

“You do not know Kajack,” said Anaris. “I find it prudent to remind _you,_ Doctor, that the boy operates on an entirely different system of logic than you or I. In the few days I have known him, I have learned that he is spontaneous and unpredictable. I find it entirely possible that he would find a way to induce a coma if it meant dodging my dinner party again. But you have a point. I owe him a great deal for Hugo’s life. I would never have guessed that the boy was capable of doing, or even willing to do, what he did last night.”

“Nor I,” said Dr. Taro, whose hands had begun to tremble.

Anaris cleared his throat and turned around to face the room. “Monty, step forth. I have a special task for you.”

She emerged from behind one of the drapes. Dr. Taro cried out and leapt backward, sending the mugs clacking together and spilling, ugly and uncinematic, across the floor and down her front. Anaris reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a thin cherry-wood box that had barely disturbed his silhouette while it was in there. Monty craned her neck to see.

The box was about the dimensions of a small paperback book. It was ornate and had a complex circular sigil carved onto the front.

“I want you to find out where this came from, Monty,” said Anaris.

“What is it?” Monty asked. Her voice was high and clear. As a Rakshasa tiefling, she could change her appearance at will in a snap, and today she was feeling bubble-gum pink. She had that feeling a lot.

“Dear gods,” Dr. Taro gasped at last. Her hand had fluttered to the base of her neck. “My word, child, I did not realize you were there.”

Anaris frowned at the box. “A courier arrived at the gates this morning and asked for ‘Kajack Molucella.’ I’m not sure what it is. Of course I opened it to see if it was anything dangerous.” He tipped back the lid with a flourish. Monty got up on her tiptoes to look inside. Inside the box was a velvet base with indentations for what appeared to be syringes, needles, and two small unlabeled vials full of a clear fluid.

He closed the box.

“What did the courier say?” asked Monty.

“Why, that he did not know where it came from,” said Anaris, perplexed. “I told him that our Kajack was still laid up from exhaustion, but that I was his next of kin, and he allowed me to sign for it instead. Any ideas, Dr. Taro? It is obviously injectable, but I can’t identify it by sight. A poison, perhaps?”

Dr. Taro was silent for a little while. She gnawed at her lip and adjusted her glasses, staring out the window at the sea. Then she said, “I could make a guess, my lord, but even unlicensed, my practice ethically requires me to follow patient confidentiality guidelines, and without the boy’s permission…”

“Fine,” said Anaris, looking disappointed. “Well. Monty, my order stands.” He offered her the box. “I’ll give you an hour with it. Don’t disturb the vials or the needles, but examine the make and craftsmanship, the symbol, any identifying features.”

“It’s the same symbol on the back of his hand,” Monty said. Anaris nodded.  
  
“You may need the expertise of a tracker. Your guardian has fully recovered by now—” He looked to Dr. Taro for confirmation. She was on the floor, painstakingly scrubbing out the stains left by the spilled drinks, but at the pause she looked up and nodded. “—and I believe most rogues can put their minds to whatever a ranger can do, no? Best of luck.”

Monty nodded. “Still want me to keep following him around, boss?”

“No, never mind that. This is a priority.”

She saluted and left the room.

Then. Two floors down. Three or four dozen feet away on the horizontal plane. A world away. The hallways of the Anaris estate had been built in a winding circular spool that made it impossible to determine each room’s accurate counterpart between floors, but while Anaris’s study was firmly on the west, Dr. Taro’s exam rooms were all clustered together in a small southern tower that looked very much like it was trying to peel itself away from the rest of the house.

The sheets were cold and white and soft.

Kajack stirred from a deep, dark sleep. His skin was bare and hot. His head hurt. He made a small, confused sound, not understanding why he was naked and alone, and not liking it, and buried himself deeper in the cool bedcovers.

He was thirsty. Consciousness crept in.

Kajack sat up and looked around. He was in a wide, canopied white bed in the middle of a pristine white room. There was a finely carved clock hanging on the wall that reported the time as eleven forty-five, which could have meant anything, morning or night; and a low table by the door with a pale folder and a pen lying on it.

The room smelled faintly of lemon.

He slumped back and clutched the sheet tight to his chest. Physically, he felt emptied out, like the aftermath of a vigorous enema.

The nightmare he’d just woken up from had started off innocuous. Bart had been his brother, biologically, but simultaneously he had been Kennick White, and both were arguing with Kajack over some trivial chore, like whose turn it was to do laundry, or how to sing scales. The argument had turned sour and serious, and Bart/Kennick had cast a terrible spell—except it was also a throwing knife, shiny and slick—that left Kajack floundering in a sea of chalky white fog. Suddenly, he was a scraggly old detective stomping through the alleyways of a dark and dingy city (which were also the hallways of a house), and his vision was distorted because he was looking through a magnifying glass, but he could still read each and every one of the stained posters growing on the walls like moss: WHODUNIT?; MURDER OF MORGAN MOLUCELLA!; SELF-DEFENSE RESULTS IN BODE TRAGEDY—

The door twitched open. Kajack squeaked and pulled the sheet higher. “Wh—”

“Hello, Kajack,” said the doctor in a tremulous voice. She entered the room with a neurotic kind of shuffling gait and shut the door behind her with a click.

“I know you,” said Kajack, afraid. “Who are you?”

“My name is Liberty Taro,” said the doctor, smiling thinly. “I was shocked to see you here, too.”

It was in the quirk of her smile that he found her. “You’re Kennick’s Momma L.!” he cried. “Oh my gosh, I—I remember you! You saved my life.”

“Any friend of Kennick’s may as well be mine,” said Liberty. She took a seat on the edge of the bed and searched him with her eyes. “You look so much healthier and happier. I like your dear little mustache. It suits you.”

This was the first time anyone had made an unsolicited positive comment on the dirtstache, and Kajack laughed out loud, wildly flattered, secure at last in this new tentative experiment.

“I never thanked you for what you did in Esbeth,” he said fervently. “I was so sick…”

“Think nothing of it, child.”

Kajack struggled up onto his elbows and stared beseechingly at Liberty. Now that he remembered her, her face, once a set of distant unknown features, melted into a foggy mess of humbling memories, and his desperate cling to the traces of familiarity he’d found further separated the woman from her physical reality. He saw her only in Esbeth, bending over him, sponging his forehead worriedly, burdened down with cloths and tinctures. “I’m so glad to see you again,” he cried. He meant it. “Have you—um, have you had contact with Kennick? Or the others?”

Liberty pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, frowned, and leaned backward across the bed, reaching for the pale folder. “We can talk about that later, dear. I had you scheduled for a general physical later this week, but since I have you here now, would you mind if I performed some simple tests?”

“You’re the doctor,” said Kajack suddenly. “My dad’s… personal doctor.”

“Yes, Lord Anaris has had some complications with his health that require in-home care,” said Dr. Taro primly. “I must admit, as unlicensed clerics like myself usually end up imprisoned, I am indebted to your father for—”

 _“Where are my clothes?”_ demanded Kajack.

Dr. Taro jumped. A worried line appeared between her eyebrows. “Oh, my goodness, well, I suppose they’d be in your room? Mr. Rose took them. I… apologize for the discomfort you may be feeling now. I have a gown you can wear if you’d prefer… I only thought it best to check for other injuries while you recovered. Incidentally,” she added, “Mr. Hugearmious is doing just fine.”

The knot in Kajack’s chest loosened. “Okay. Are you going to tell my dad?”

“What about?” said Dr. Taro, looking distressed.

“That I’m trans.”

Dr. Taro fiddled with the bridge of her spectacles. “Of course not, sweetheart, but why?”  
  
“I just don’t want him to know,” Kajack said. “He shouldn’t get to know, and if he finds out I literally, physically can’t get some poor girl pregnant—” He shuddered at the thought of getting pregnant himself. Some men went for it; he could never. Certainly not for the wrong reasons.

Liberty relaxed. “If you’d rather stay ‘in the closet,’ as it were, that is your decision. Though… I must ask, how have you been, er, medically transitioning? I assume the Lumen has been helping you?” She waited, hovering.

Kajack looked around the room. The wafting scent of lemon had faded and been replaced by a sickly sweaty presence, which he now realized was probably him.

He didn’t want to talk about this.

A tiny, dimly lit corner of his brain had very, very recently learned to like his body, the tiny, growing paunch, the someone-else’s-feet, the awkward shapes and the discolorations and the earthy weight. He went to war against it. But liking being trans took no effort at all. To shine a spotlight on the thing within himself, with that word, and talk about it in front of a stranger, threw the whole concept into silhouette and made him sound ashamed and frightened of _being trans._ He wasn’t. He hardly thought about it. It was as fundamental to him as breathing, and just as easy to explain.

“I cast a spell,” he said, tired. “It’s a long story.”

“You’re doing this with magic?”

She waited. He didn’t answer.

“What spell?”

“Wish,” he said.

“That is impossible,” said Liberty flatly. “You are a fifth-level bard. You can’t cast Wish.”

Kajack squirmed. “You can if you’re standing waist-deep in the Arcana Ultimatum,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

In a flash, he was in a gown and standing. Liberty was running a sensor over his chest. “I don’t understand,” she said, harrowed. “You’ve been exposed to raw Arcana? When did this happen?”

“I don’t know what to tell you!” Kajack cried. “It comes with being an adventurer! You go on adventures! And it wasn’t _the_ Arcana, anyway, just a piece of it. I’m _fine._ This was months ago and I’m fine.”

“Tell me what happened,” said Liberty, looking him square in the face.

Kajack’s eyes shot around the room and couldn’t find purchase in the bare white walls. “Ugh, okay, so, we were under Esbeth, the city was about to blow up, we were trying to disable this bomb, and I _tried_ to Wish to change my body, but there’s always a chance something will go wrong with the spell, so it only kind of worked. Now every month, or two months, or whatever, a package shows up with no return address, and I just inject my dose every week and that’s it!”

“That is not safe,” said Liberty severely.

“I don’t _care!_ Does a _bomb_ sound safe to you, Momma L.? Nothing about my life is safe, so why should this be?”

Dr. Taro exhaled. “Well, do you have any concerns?” she said, finally. “I may be able to refer you to a surgeon if that’s something you want. I’d also like to order a blood test.”

“Fine, whatever,” Kajack snapped. “But I don’t want surgery and I don’t have any concerns. I just want to go _home.”_   
  
Liberty looked frightened. She turned her back on Kajack and scribbled something in the folder, then closed it with a snap and faced him again. “Please wait here,” she said, inclined her head, and walked out of the room.

Kajack immediately scrambled for the door. He was about to open it, but then he remembered that he was wearing only a hospital gown, and then he couldn’t open the door, so he gritted his teeth and walked around the room in a tight circle, hugging himself.

He fought internally for a good minute before casting a Sending to Luma:

_Are you guys OKAY? :( I need to hear from you. Have you escaped the Keepers? YOU CAN REPLY TO THIS. I have one more Sending._

This time, he did receive an reply, and it touched his mind like an emollient:

_Everyone alive. Brought to Capitol for execution, but escaped today. Hiding in woods; will return to Lumen for reinforcements. Hold strong, Kajack. What about you?_

Kajack felt smoothed out. He even dared to smile. He sat at the foot of the crinkly bed and swung his legs back and forth as he composed his second and final Sending of the day:

_Thank gods you’re okay! Alive. Father forcing me to be his heir; can’t leave estate!!! Scared, but better now. I’m like going through some stuff._

It took a while for Luma to respond this time. When the reply brushed against Kajack’s mind at last, achingly short, he could not stop himself from crawling back into bed and curling up around it like a frightened toddler:

_We love you, Kajack._


	14. The Party

Even tied securely to the dock, half-sunk, _Lady Wei_ had managed to unravel her rope and was now drifting around the harbor, bumping clumsily against the dock and the cliff face beside her like a lost dog. Her bow was scrunched into the shape of a crumpled-up paper bag. Zhara just stood there, watching her bob low in the water, resting his pointer finger over his lip.

He turned to Hugearmious. “A pity. I know you adored her.”

“Will yeh help?” Hugearmious said roughly.

Zhara squatted down on his haunches. He played with a small dead leaf, gazing out at the rippling orange ocean. The sun hung over the water like an apple in a sack. “What you need?” he said at last.

“I want yeh ter find the little lady, Zhara, and don’t tell Val,” Hugearmious rumbled. “Yeh know her name, but she goes by plenty o’ others, so that won’t help. Dunno her race, but then yer all short ter me.”

“Never thought you’d come to me for help with girls.”

“Well, but yer married, ain’t yeh,” said Hugearmious. His eyes were glowing a curious red. “An’ she’s a Lady, too, ain’t she? Lady—”

“Yes,” said Zhara patiently.

“—Lady Luba Ati? Luba Zen, now—”

 _“Queen_ Luba Zen, soon,” said Zhara, almost to himself. He slapped Hugearmious on the arm. “Keep it quiet, big fella. Tides are turnin’.” He was silent for a while. Then he said, “I can’t look for your girlfriend right now. Boss won’t like it if I run off on a secret international manhunt without notice. Especially tonight, with your _savior’s_ big evening.”

“Don’ say it like that, Zhara…”

“The kid can’t even swim and he saved your life,” Zhara marveled. “Hah, you’d be at the bottom of the ocean without him! You! A tough sailor! And a vapid little elf who weighs no more than eight stone.”

One of Hugearmious’s huge, tree-trunk arms shot out and hoisted Zhara off the ground by his collar. Zhara flailed, choking. “That elf,” Hugearmious growled, “put yeh in the hospital.”

“Put me down,” Zhara spluttered. Hugearmious lowered him to the grass. Zhara coughed and spat. “Ay! Gods! If the boss saw you do that—”

“I don’ like you, Zen,” said Hugearmious, whose eyes were steaming scarlet. “An’ I don’ like the kid either, but I won’t hear a word against ’im. I’m serious. He didn’ have ter save my hide, but he did, an’ so did Anaris more’n I can count, and I been with this goddam family longer’n you—”

A knife appeared in Zhara’s hand. Hugearmious roared, but Zhara wasn’t looking at him. He threw out his empty hand, placating, and spun on his heel, eyes bugging out. Then he inhaled sharply and put his hand to his chest. “Gods, Ollie! What you want?”

Oliver bowed low. “Apologies for the interruption, sirs. Miss Montgomery sends thanks for your assistance earlier, Zhara. Mr. Hugearmious, I am here on behalf of Lord Anaris, who is requesting your service as a guard at the door.”

Objectively the party was worth guarding. Every evening regularly turned up a handful of locals who preferred the company of Anaris over their own households, but for the parties, Lord Anaris would send out special wax-sealed, handwritten invitations, and uninvited neighbors were barred from dropping by. There was music and dancing and absolutely nothing gauche (except during the masquerades). Every once in a while, a wealthy noble already close to death would get poisoned or stabbed or shot, and then Anaris would lock all the doors and command a murder mystery, which was always riotously fun.

But the unexpected twenty-four extra hours to prepare had tempted him into pouring more funds than usual into tonight’s. He had spent a thousand queens on a Heroes’ Feast. The dining room would be pure hell to clean up afterwards, which was not missed by the staff.

“If it’s so damn urgent, why aren’t you busy dragging the kid kicking and screaming outta his room?” asked Zhara, tossing the knife restlessly between his hands. “Thought we had an hour left.”

“You’re going senile, old man,” said Oliver, fond. “We started fifteen minutes ago.”

They had. It had begun as a tight cluster of wealth that slowly unwound itself into color and noise. There they were: all the quaint debutantes and moneyed gentlemen of the Ivory Coast, swathed in elegant puffed dresses and gloves and hats and canes, flocking together like vultures in the choking golden ballroom.

Anaris was a fixture at the far end of the room. The ladies and lords present would have been embarrassed to admit their rabid curiosity about the goings-on of his household. Rumors were already spreading now that his son, the damp, miserable-looking brown-haired boy at his side, was a bastard born out of that terrific scandal twenty-some years ago. But that was ancient history, and no one dared to ask, so they got bored of talking about it pretty quick and moved on.

“Ah! Before I forget, Kajack, this came for you last night,” said Anaris. He pulled a little box out of his coat pocket. Kajack’s heart stopped. Anaris traced one long finger across the Sage symbol engraved in the front. “I wonder what it is?” he mused.

Kajack snatched the box away from Anaris and stuffed it under his arm like a precious thing. “That’s none of your business,” he cried.

Anaris’s expression dissipated into indifference. He raised an eyebrow and his glass, draining the whole cup in one impressive pull. “Quite true,” he said merrily, turning to face the party again. “But I would suggest you disguise your tone of voice if you intend to continue this discussion.”

“I won’t be rude,” said Kajack, who was desperate to make his point anyway, “because we had an agreement. But I could wreck this whole place if I wanted and you wouldn’t be able to do anything. You can’t touch my friends now. They escaped the Keepers and they’re on their way home.”

Anaris’s eyebrow arched even higher. “And you are welcome for that. Be warned, Kajack: I could order my guards to kill them instead of merely injuring them the next time they try to break in and rescue you. It is not an order I wish to give. Do not test me.”

Kajack’s mouth flapped open and shut in despair.

He narrowed his eyes. “Did you _open_ the box?”

“Yes,” said Anaris easily. Kajack had feared this.

“Did you mess with anything inside? Did you take anything out?”

“No. I am tracing it. I find it suspicious that its sender should know your new address within, hm, a day of your arrival. No unsolicited package enters my home without vetting. But I did not touch its contents.” A server walked by, and Anaris, without hesitation, plucked a flute from her tray; Kajack watched him drink and swallow, hating him. “Go find Oliver,” Anaris suggested, smacking his lips. “I wouldn’t want you to carry that package around all night. Suppose you drop it and the little bottles break?”

“I was going to do that anyway,” said Kajack, retreating. “I thought of that first!”

He disappeared into the crowd, walking stiffly, hugging the box to his chest with both hands. Anaris watched him go. Then he shifted his cruel eyes around the party, once again pawing avidly through that mess of elegance.

“How childish,” purred a voice at his ear.

The champagne in Anaris’s flute wobbled dangerously. His stomach clenched. He released it and controlled himself. “Children are children,” he said idly. “You would know.”

“I meant you,” she said. “I was surprised to receive your invitation, Tino.” She was resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Nothing surprises you.”

He turned his head and searched her lined face. The Duchess Castra Ati was blonde, older, and very beautiful, and excepting her hair, which she must have had cut for the party, she looked no different than the last time he’d seen her. Her eyes were as cold as a tiger’s. She peered up at him innocently.

“Then I am right,” she cooed, “in assuming my sole purpose here is to justify my daughter’s presence so your son can beg for her hand.”

“I rather suspect I will be the one doing the begging,” said Anaris dryly. “He is not easy.”

“You want Ati blood. Still.”

He flinched so badly that both of them were momentarily embarrassed. “Don’t talk to _me,”_ he said, peeling himself away from her and recovering, “about blood. Oh, can I help it, Duchess? Your daughter’s political opportunities are worth more than gold! What is she now, a princess?”

The Duchess extended one delicate hand toward the room at large. “Darla, come here, this gentleman wants to meet you,” she called lightly. Then in a quieter voice she said to Anaris, “Only by a technicality. A bond of marriage between our families is an awfully risky checkmate. Know what you’re doing, or you’ll lose a lot more than… heh. You know.”

Anaris looked at her coolly.

Then Kajack was slipping behind the towering velvet curtains that hung over the raised stage at the back of the ballroom. It was _weird._ The flag of wealth across his back had turned the stage beneath his heels into an alien landscape. At least backstage was the same as every other backstage in Mestrus: dim and earthy, and it smelled like old cigarettes. Oliver, Zhara, and a few other servants unrecognizable to Kajack were set up around a card table. One of the unknowns saw him approaching and dropped their entire hand on the floor.

“You look nice, sir,” said Oliver mildly.

“I look like a creep,” Kajack replied, with finality, but under his breath so that Oliver could plausibly deny he’d heard it. Oliver was the one who’d sat him down and coaxed him into the suit for the evening an hour ago. Here was the worst part: Kajack did look nice. For someone who was, at his core, messy, it was wrong to be cleaned up. When he looked good, he looked _good,_ but never _nice._

The hair was the worst. It was still damp from the scrubbing. He kept on reassuring himself that he could dye it green again when he escaped, and if it came to it, he could even prestidigitate the color in, which he’d done for years anyway. He’d drawn the line at Oliver cutting it any shorter than it was and had even thrown the scissors at the door like a dart when he offered. The blades had stuck an impressive half-inch through the wood. That one, he thought, he would be sure to tell Parisa about. Anyway, he’d snarled, “You don’t know how to cut my hair,” and the depth and severity of his own voice had scared both of them into obedience, so now it was up in a fancy brown bun, which Kajack abhorred.

Kajack ignored the other people in the room and held out the box to Oliver. “This is _really important._ Could you put this in my room for me? I mean, with my stuff, um, next to my sweater, so I can find it again?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And can I come with you?” Kajack asked in desperation. “I don’t see how I can survive another two hours of this. They’re all—rich!”

Zhara snorted and palmed a card into his sleeve. Oliver’s lips twisted up in a startled smile. “No, sir, I’m afraid you’ll just have to suffer through it.” He stood. “Play for me for the next few rounds, Zhar, I’ll be right back.”

“I’m already playing for Luba,” Zhara muttered. But he agreeably reached over and swept Oliver’s cards into a stack and tapped them against the table in a single practiced motion, like cracking an egg.

Kajack looked down at the tips of his expensive shoes.

This wasn’t the time to apologize or solicit apologies or bond or build a connection. He had to grit his teeth and fling his anguished desire to ask to join the card game far into the back of the closet of his mind and slam the door shut. He took a deep breath, turned away, and stalked back toward the faint doorway leading to the dusty, draped-over stage, lost, homesick, and lonely from the smells and the comfort back there in the darkness.


	15. Kajack Resists Temptation; Eats Bread

There had been a sort of mocking proverb amongst BODE while the band was active, and this is how it went:

If you lose Kajack in a crowd, just look for the tallest, buffest, hottest man!

Apparently the world had moved on to dancing while Kajack had been busy exploring the cavities behind the stage. He emerged, blinking, into torchlight, only to find that a small instrumental band of dulcimers and lutes had already set up with a jovial and timeless tune he recognized from a million taverns. Then he was rooted to the spot. His eyes had by fortune landed on a muscular, pleasant-looking brown-skinned man with a wide smile, chestnut hair, beard, and masses of curly reddish chest hair, the last of which was only visible to Kajack because the man was—honestly—clad in a backless black evening gown with slits in the side all the way up to his waist. Kajack forgot where he was. His mouth watered.

“Kajack,” called Lord Anaris, who was standing just beyond a square of waltzing couples. “There you are, son. Come. I have someone I would like you to meet.”

Kajack had to practically hold a gun on himself to take his eyes off the guy and thread his way across the ballroom. Anaris was accompanied by a blonde, pale, clear-skinned human lady and a younger, pinched-looking human girl with light eyes. Powerful people were supposed to be famous, but the only thing he recognized about either of them was the golden Keeper pin on the older lady’s dress. He resisted the urge to look behind him again for the chestnut man.“The Duchess Castra Ati,” said Anaris richly.

“Bow.”

Kajack grimaced and dipped into a jerky bow.

“Good.” The severe tone left Anaris’s voice. “The Duchess is a dear… _friend_ of mine, Kajack. I have known her for almost seventeen years. You may have already met her sister, the Lady Luba.”

“Zhara’s wife?”

The Duchess smirked. “Ah, Valentino, how I wish you would give our black sheep a rest! Yes, Luba married below her station and gave up her name for love. A pity. But I would rather you heard it from me than from the, ah, grapevine.” Her voice was throaty. She held out her hand. “I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Anaris.”

Kajack remembered the brief course in etiquette he’d been given. “My lady,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing it.

Apparently this was wrong. The Duchess shot an amused look at Anaris. “Little charmer he is!”

“And her daughter, the Princess Darla Ati of Eaoduin,” said Anaris with a flourish.

The girl standing next to the Duchess looked very young. Her cheeks were plump and round. Her eyes, like the Duchess’s, were round and intelligent, and they traveled around the room richly and decisively, as if the mere act of turning her head brought on the sensation of touching velvet. She shook Kajack’s hand—he had decided not to kiss hers—and did not smile or curtsy.

“Pleasure,” she said indifferently.

Now he was looking her over again, less sure if he had seen her before.

“A princess?” he asked her. “But your mom’s a duchess. How’s that work? And Luba, isn’t she Rasputin?”

He expected to be snapped at for asking rude questions, but Anaris merely inclined his head and smiled. “Ah, the political complexities of the Ati family tree are truly a work of art. Practically a tapestry. Legally, our dear Duchess is a citizen of Mestrus, but she was born in Rasputina with her sister, and the Princess, if I am not mistaken, is…?” He raised his eyebrows at the Duchess.

“Darla was raised by a woman in Eaoduin,” she said calmly. She placed her long, pale hand onto Darla’s shoulder, where it rested, attentive, like a twitching bird. “I was only recently fortunate enough to recover her and return her to my household. Her father was entitled to an estate in the possession of the ruling government of Eaoduin before his untimely and tragic _accident.”_ (This, Kajack supposed, was code for “and I’m the one who killed him.”)

Darla was looking anywhere around the room but at Kajack. Her gaze skated from a sconce to the rich portraits, to the wide, gated fireplace, then the band on the stage, then over to the refreshments table.

Anaris chuckled. “It’s quite easy to keep track of all the family lines once you get used to it, Kajack. Have no fear.”

Suddenly Darla laughed. Her laugh was high and bell-like. Kajack jumped, absolutely certain he had heard those bubbling giggles before. She fell silent. Kajack looked at her, uneasy. The song was coming to an end.

“Dinner!” said Anaris abruptly. He seized a blade from his coat, snapped it open, and tapped the blade against his champagne flute. “I shall signal the serving staff.” The tinkling sound of silver on glass slithered through the ballroom.

It was at “the table of the highest honor” that Kajack found his name card. Other guests at the table included the Duchess, Anaris himself, several ancient ladies and gentlemen clad in gold of whom Kajack took no notice, the chestnut man, and finally Princess Darla, who sat at the end of the very long table directly across from Kajack.

The bread.

Kajack inhaled it. 

The basket placed nearest to him was full of brioche, which he could only have identified by name after weeks of lazily indulging in Smolls’s passions. Rich person bread, he decided wildly, was no better in quality than the sort of bread his outlaw friends made in their donation-funded ovens deep beneath the earth, but there was more of it. It just kept coming. It was soft, warm, and almost—hypnotizingly almost—sweet. In another age, in another time, Kajack would have seen the baskets of bread and quietly walked out of the room, nibbling on a cracker or a wild onion to tame his stomach. He was older. He was tired.

He let himself go to the bread.

Oliver, who was now dressed in a sharper tunic, saw what was happening and drifted just behind his chair with a small plate of butter like a lifeguard patiently watching a child splash into deeper water.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Lord,” purred the Duchess.

Certainly the most eye-catching dish on the table was the whole black boar, which had a pair of real red apples stuffed in its mouth, but one of the servants had just brought over and was cutting into what Kajack could not identify by sight but supposed was a stag. Glancing around the domed marble dining room, there was no obvious distribution in which table received what quality of food. The world burned and glistened with color in here. Every berry on every plate glittered like a jewel, and every slab of meat gleamed greasily in the light.

There were tiny round clay bowls full of something black, rich, thick, and pungent that Kajack didn’t recognize, but it smelled and looked like black honey; roasted nuts, roasted asparagus, oven-roasted corn, and, to keep the train going, various roasted and baked birds, from quail to squab to duck to pheasant. And fruits! Fruits of all kinds! Green apple (with brie), plums, red apple (with camembert), exotic peaches and mangos and sugared oranges and strawberries and blackberries. And then the characteristic fish, the rich and sweet and sour ones, fried, raw, and bubbling still in their own oils; snails and sea snails cooked in their fat, soft shells; and long trays of inky-blue caviar, like boats rowed on by the high bottles of paired spices arranged around them: Phoenix Beak, Wraith Fingers, Ivory Thyme, Mellovessian pepper.

Kajack reached for another slice of brioche, only to accidentally press his palm against the back of a smooth, warm, manicured hand. He looked up with wide eyes.

The tits-out man with the chestnut hair and beard was watching him. Kajack stared at his face uncomprehendingly. Then he let his gaze slip downward to the tits. He just looked. When he looked back up, one corner of the man’s beautiful lips was raised in a tiny, knowing smirk. Kajack’s ears went hot.

The man turned his hand in Kajack’s grip so their palms met. “Marquis Leon D’Lyberdal,” he said richly. _“A pleasure.”_

This last part was said in Sylvan. Kajack bit his lip and tried for a second to summon any polite Sylvan vocabulary he’d picked up from his years of travel. He gave up. He said in Mestrian: “Kajack Molucella. I am enchanted to make your acquaintance.” But he said this quietly, so that the Duchess Castra Ati wouldn’t realize he was plagiarizing everything he knew about rich person etiquette from her.

The marquis released Kajack’s hand and drew back. He had a tiny, puzzled smile on his face. _“Do you speak any Sylvan, poppet?”_

Kajack shook his head in despair. He didn’t understand. He switched languages. “Do you know Common?”

“I can get by,” said the marquis in Common. There was a tiny drop of what Kajack guessed was wine clinging to the hairs above his upper lip. Kajack involuntarily licked his own lips. “I do not think I have seen you before.”

“No,” said Kajack, relieved. “I would definitely remember meeting you.”

The marquis’s lingering smirk broke into a genuine, wide, startled grin. After a moment, he gestured at Kajack’s plate. “Do you intend to eat anything other than bread, Lord?”

“Maybe later tonight,” Kajack said breathlessly.

Then he put his head in his hands and reminded himself that he had a boyfriend.

Actually, Marlon would probably understand if Kajack used this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get back at his father by seducing a member of the aristocracy. Kajack certainly wouldn’t begrudge Marlon that. Hell, if Marlon was the one considering hooking up with a lord right then, Kajack would be cheering from the sidelines with little pom-poms. Gay rights!

He swallowed. It was a bad idea.

He wanted to talk to Marlon first.

No, he wanted to _talk to Marlon,_ period. If he, hypothetically, had the chance to talk to his boyfriend, asking for permission to run off and get railed by a beautiful man with eyes with nothing but sin in them would be last on his list. He would ask if Marlon was safe, and how his day was going, and then he would go on to make him laugh and tell him stories and curl up comfortably in the sound of his voice. That was as fulfilling as any sex. More fulfilling.

Kajack was miserable.

After dinner he was allowed thirty minutes of much-needed privacy so he could do vocal warmups and clear his throat of any remaining bread. Having completely forgotten that he was supposed to sing that night, cloudy from the wine, he scrambled to pick a song that was easy to sing and would land even if his voice cracked. He was not nervous.

He never got nervous. The closest thing to anxiety that had ever overtaken Kajack before a performance was a wild, brilliant, reckless confidence. Although he expressed to Oliver some mild concerns about the tightness of the shirt, he’d performed in worse conditions. This wasn’t even his first private show in a rich person’s house, though as a rule he tried not to think about those. Bad associations. It would be fine.

And there was his cue.

So different from the roaring howl of a crowd at a club or concert!

He pushed through the heavy velvet curtains and clicked out into the spotlight:

_It’s a wet wild night under hot empty skies,_

_Gotcha rooks in your pocket and moons in your eyes,_

_’Cause the war is a bitch and the Fuhrer’s a bore,_

_But if poker’s a priest, ooh, won’t you be my—oh!_

_Oh, baby, watch out! There be sharks in the sea_

_And they’re surfing the suckers between you and me;_

_Got your Jack and your Joker and eyes in the thicket,_

_But bet on me, baby, I go to the wicked!_

_Would it go to your head if I gave you the game?_

_Never write me off, wicked, remember the name!_

_I’m deadly alert and I won’t miss a blink_

_When I can’t see your face and I can’t hold my drink,_

_Yeah, I married my name to the face of a Jack_

_And I stole the game, baby, I won’t give it back!_

_Bet on me_

_Or bet on the gods_

_The cards do what I tell ’em_

_And so do the odds_

_Did you sneak outta your million-queen house_

_Your shiny halls, blood on the walls_

_Just for me, mister money?_

_I hope you brought your parents’ cash,_

_’Cause I’m still expensive, honey!_

_Yeah, I think I’m so funny, I think I’m so fine,_

_If we fall in the forest, would we make a rhyme?_

_Give you what you like and can never afford—_

_’Cause I win, and I win, and I NEVER get bored!_

_Oh, darling, take care; there be sharps in the trees_

_And they’re tasting the tension between you and me;_

_Got your Jack and your Joker and got me addicted,_

_But bet on me, baby, I go to the wicked!_

_Would it go to your head if I gave you the game?_

_Never write me off, wicked, remember the name!_

It was widely agreed that the young Mr. Anaris had potential. His debut at dinner left little to be desired. Though his etiquette, sharp ungainly movements, wide staring eyes, and even his taste in music were all a little _outré_ to polite company, these things could be overlooked or trained out.

He was charming. He embodied an attractive youthfulness that many of the guests had long since lost.

There was one other thing.

At the closing song, the minotaur guard at the door went through a marvelous transformation. He went from standing stiffly in the background, unnoticed and bored, to filling up like a balloon with presence, staring with some aroused emotion at the frail half-elf onstage, one gigantic hand-like hoof over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Akira for Leon. AWOOGA. What more can be said?


	16. Kajack Injects Himself With a Controlled Substance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like needles, it might help to know that the injection is framed in a positive light.

Woof, elven wine hit different in a dark hallway.

So this made two nights in a row of Kajack ending up a little tipsy. He reached up to undo the hateful bun, which was pulling at his scalp, and promptly tripped over an unlit candelabrum and crashed to the ground.

“Up you get, sir,” sighed Oliver, pulling him to his feet. “That’s right. Let’s get you into bed.”

“That  _ sucked  _ for me,” Kajack said vehemently.

“Yes, sir, it was pure iron. I won’t be surprised if you’re bruised to shit tomorrow.”

“What? No, I meant the party! That was horrible! I feel—dirty. I feel  _ used. _ ” Kajack wiped his wrist across his mouth. “I grew up on the road, Oliver. When we were really little, we ate out of the trash. I’m not rich. I’ve never been rich. I don’t want to be rich! I can’t just sit in a stupid chair in these stupid pants and say things like, ‘you must come visit my chalet’ and ‘I have private lawyers.’ And you! You, standing there, pouring wine, as if you aren’t worth every pip as that Duchess…”

By some miracle, they’d gotten up the stairs to Kajack’s room by then, and Kajack was hopping around the chamber, struggling to get the awful tight pearled pants past his hips.

“Sir… I realize you, erm, would rather get undressed on your own, but could I please just make this easier for both of us and help you?”

Kajack was tired. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, fine.”

The balled-up sock he’d jammed down the front mercifully stayed pinned right where it was supposed to be as Oliver rolled Kajack’s pants down to his ankles. Kajack touched it through his underwear to make sure it was secure. Then he realized that Oliver would think he was adjusting his real-life actual penis, thanked the gods for the plausible deniability of being mildly faded, and averted his eyes, embarrassed in a way only a gay man pretending to be a straight man can ever be.

The shirt came off easy. Oliver released some secret fastening at the back of his neck and unwound the thing in sections.

Kajack frowned.

“I feel rotten about this,” he told Oliver, sourly, over his shoulder, as he wriggled out of the binder. It didn’t hurt. He had a slight ache in his shoulder, but really he was either using the wrong kind of material or his chest was too small to bind. He’d heard rumors that binders mostly made your body feel like an orange being juiced even when worn, quote, correctly. “I should be able to take my clothes off without help.”

“It’s my job, sir,” said Oliver, patient. “Do you mind if I ask—”

“And that’s stupid!” Kajack cried. “I never entered any contract with you! I’m not paying you! Actually, I don’t even know how you’re getting paid.”

“I receive my pay from Lord Anaris. Sir, is that a bandage? Are you hurt?”

Oliver gently pressed his fingertips against Kajack’s spine, right between his shoulder blades, as if imploring him to turn around.

“Your hand’s cold!” Kajack yelped. The gentle touch of Oliver’s fingers against his bare skin whipped away instantly. Kajack grimaced. He looked at his own hands. Then he exhaled, frustrated, and turned around, watching Oliver’s face. “It’s not a bandage,” he said.

Oliver said nothing.

“You don’t have an opinion?” Kajack demanded, hot and humiliated.

“What? Oh.  _ Oh.  _ It’s all right, sir. There are lots of noblemen who are insecure about their bodies,” said Oliver comfortingly. “For what it is worth, I think you are very handsome. Though I must be frank, sir, I’m not sure what I am supposed to be seeing…? If you tell me your insecurities, I could ask Hugearmious or Zhara to recommend a workout regimen…?”

Was Kajack losing his mind?

Then he remembered the first time he took his shirt off in front of Marlon. Of course. Cis people, bless them, could be just a little bit stupid sometimes. They only saw what they expected to see. Or maybe Oliver was actually Tharcaen’s most considerate ally, but Kajack wasn’t going to push his luck.

Emboldened, he said, “Does my dad pay you to call me handsome?”

Oliver’s ears were slowly turning red. “Er. No. Not as such, sir, no. That was from the heart and genuine.”

Kajack grinned. “Oliver? I think you’re sweet.”   
  
“Oh, gods. Thank. Thank you, sir?”

Kajack snatched up his red sweater and burrowed into it. “Today was the longest day ever,” he said firmly, “and I am going to go to sleep now. Thanks for your help.”

“All right, sir.” Oliver retreated to the doorway. “Is there anything else you require of me?”

“No.”

“Good night.”   


Oliver waved his hand, and the soft ambient lighting in the room vanished into blackness.

Kajack flopped back on his bed and stared at the sky through the glass window in the ceiling. The moon was just visible. It was a toenail of a crescent. Even through the window, even at a distance, he could see its craters.

Then he fell asleep, right on top of the covers.

Morning came.

He got up and crawled to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth. Tweezed his eyebrows. Stared into the mirror at the dark circles under his eyes. Squished his cheeks around his face with his fingers. Kajack retrieved and opened the cherry-wood box.

So a god, or the Wish, or whatever it really was that delivered his medication to him now, was willing to account for an abrupt change in address. That was nice. Also nice was the injection needle, which was thin and bright and silvery, like a sliver of armor. It shimmered in the new raw sunlight. The drawing needle was fat and dull. Kajack picked out one of the vials from its snug velvet compartment and began the slow, methodical process of drawing up fluid into the syringe. This was his favorite part.

Kajack thought a lot of words all at the same time, and when he got them untangled they looked like this:

This is my body now. I don’t like to think about what it was or what it will be. When I stretch it and run with it and lift things up and put them down, I don’t think “wow, I’m going to have spectacular core strength,” or “when I’m done, my muscles had better be as buff as Viridios’s,” or even “I wonder if I can get my tummy any flatter.” No! A filthy lie! I do think those things. I’m a person. I have no choice. But at my center I think I’m tired of it, the war. I don’t want to keep trying to control a body I haven’t even met yet. This is what it is and I have to be good to it. My best friend Luma told me that on the balcony between cigarettes. I have to be good to it now.

I can punish it (he thought). I can condemn it. I can play with it and apparently I can get it kidnapped. I can watch it cry. There are things I can do with it that I am very good at, and there are things I am bad at, like pool or ballroom dancing or liking the way my chest looks as much as I like my legs, and for the right reasons; and things I have not even really dared to try, like swimming or drawing or touching myself without pretending someone is watching. But I can’t replace it or switch it out for a future version, so I might as well let those Kajacks come when they come. (They will never come.)

Well, it’s morning, he thought. I’m a little hungover, I’m bloated, I’m still in the game, and I am about to give myself a shot which is part of a process which is part of a lifelong commitment. I have to count down before I stick the needle in. I have to close my eyes. I can’t watch it happen. It’s the least intuitive thing.

Look away now. Three, two, one...

Kajack jabbed the needle into the top of his thigh. There was very little resistance. He relaxed. It felt like nothing at all. Last week it had hurt badly for reasons he was still trying to puzzle out. He let his eyes drift aimlessly around the empty white walls while he pressed down on the plunger.

Then he withdrew the needle from his leg.

Some kind of rough-voiced bird was cawing loudly beyond the skylight. He would have thought it was a crow, but its voice broke in the middle of every cry.

It was safe to look again.

There’s hair (he thought, capping the used needle) growing on my inner thighs where there wasn’t any before, and I don’t remember when it got there. I have forgotten how to shave my legs and pits. I have acne on my butt. My dick is different, and it’s been different for brief enough—haha, brief—that I haven’t gotten used to the sudden weight and girth, but long enough that I can’t remember how it used to look and feel. The same is true for my voice. I am oily and strange and new parts of my body that I can’t attribute to testosterone are beginning to manifest, like the shape of my tummy and the way that I walk and how I’m not putting on makeup anymore and the fact that I actually did get a gym membership at the Lumen but am trying to be sneaky about going because I have a reputation. If I’m not a ditzy, lithe, skinny little twink, then what am I?

My body is this. Now.

He poked himself in the tummy, then slapped it gently.

“Sir?”

Kajack flew up like an arrow loosed from a crossbow. He grabbed for the box, jammed the little bottle back into its velvet slot, scrabbled to dispose of the used needles in the secret compartment beneath the false bottom, wriggled the lid back on, and stuffed the whole thing under the bed. He straightened up. “Come in,” he called breathlessly. The door clicked open.

“Ah, you’re up. I thought I heard your water running,” said Oliver, relaxing. “Good morning, sir. How did you sleep?”   
  
“Felt like I didn’t,” Kajack admitted. “How about you?”

Oliver was doing what Kajack could only describe as “bustling.” He went into the bathroom and turned on the taps, then moved past Kajack to the bed and fluffed out the pillows and tucked the sheets in under the mattress and smoothed out the comforter. As he moved, he was talking: “Sorry to hear that, sir. Oh, I slept fine. Got to bed late, though. The after-party went until around three in the morning! Hugo did a keg stand.”

Kajack cried out. “You guys had an after-party? And I couldn’t go?”

“Well,” said Oliver, emerging from the breakfast bar with a tray full of teas and glazed pastries. “It’s for the staff, you see.”

“But those are always the best!”

“I’m afraid I can’t invite you, sir,” said Oliver, face perfectly expressionless. “It would put everyone on edge. We only have so many opportunities to, er, ‘cut loose.’ What would you like to do today?” Oliver saw his hesitation and added, “It looks like a slow day. There are no parties or events that you will be forced to attend, and his lordship has not yet hired on a tutor, so you have no lessons. I also feel compelled to let you know that you may dress as you see fit.”

“Well, then I’m going to wear this!” Kajack plucked at the front of his sweater. “And the pants I came in wearing!”

Oliver looked pained. “I’m sorry, sir. Lord Anaris—”

“Lord Anaris! What a pathetic old fuck he is!” Kajack whined. He threw himself backward onto the freshly-made bed. “I’m so sick of him! I can’t even wear what I want!”

“Excuse me.” Oliver clicked his fingers. The center of the floor, where the swirling grey patterns in the marble circled together and met, began to shimmer with white, and on Kajack’s next blink, a round iron table appeared in the room. Oliver set the tray down harder than necessary. “Lord Anaris is allowing you to keep your old clothes out of sentiment, but you are not to appear in public wearing them anymore. You can pick an outfit from your closet. Those are the rules. I would love to let you wear what you want, but frankly, that sweater is getting disgusting, and for starters I wish you’d let me wash it if you insist on wearing it for pajamas,  _ Mr. Anaris.” _

Kajack stared at him mournfully.

Oliver’s jaw tensed. “The water should be hot by now,” he muttered. “I’d recommend you take a bath before you get dressed. Er, I’m going into the market today, so let me know if you want me to pick anything up.”

Kajack let the first thing that came to his mind fall out of his mouth. “Can I go with you?”

“Sir?”

“If I’m with you,” Kajack said carefully, “big strong wizard, I can’t escape, right? Because you won’t let me.” He tilted his head. “And you’ll get something out of it, too, because I’ll be less annoying if I’m not cooped up in a tower.”

The corner of Oliver’s mouth quirked up into an unwilling smile. “I’m a sorcerer.”   


“Ooh, that’s so much more fashionable,” Kajack cooed, moving closer. “My friend Bart is a wizard, and ugh! Nose stuck in a book all day. There’s nothing like the raw sex appeal of a sorcerer!”  _ Sorry, Bart,  _ he said mentally.

Oliver just looked at him. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, “but… certainly, sir, I’ll ask Lord Anaris for permission. I actually don’t think it’s such a bad idea to take you into town. In exchange, will you just—please take a bath and let me help you with your clothes without making a fuss?”

“Okay!” Kajack chirped.


	17. Things Start to Look Up for Kajack

Great news for Kajack’s soul: Oliver not only returned with full, resounding permission from Anaris but even insisted that Kajack wear less obviously expensive clothing if he was going into town. The less savory parts of Bellichi, few though they were, were feared—not for their violence, but for the threat of merchants and charlatans who would pounce on the unwary rich and swindle their fortune—so the tight, glossy shirts that signified him as a gentleman were off the table. He put on a simple puffed-sleeve tunic and overalls and felt pretty pleased with the rustic look. 

Bad news: no sweater. Leaving the red sweater at home meant he couldn’t escape without leaving a part of himself behind. This was a point Oliver had been pretty clear about. So the sweater went in the laundry, and the bracelet, which was, at least, easier to conceal, went under Kajack’s sleeve. This gave him comfort.

It was a chilly, sunless day.

“We’ll be visiting Zhara and Mrs. Zen and Montgomery’s house first,” Oliver said, clambering into the driver’s seat of the horse-and-carriage. He plopped down next to Kajack, who was languishing, cross-legged, and picked up the reins.

“They have their own house? I sorta thought they all lived at the estate,” said Kajack.

“No, sir. Only myself, Hugearmious, and Dr. Taro live on the property.” The horses began to trot forward. The carriage creaked pleasantly. “Montgomery, our housekeeper, lives with Zhara and his wife as their ward. I believe Lord Anaris decided to hire her on after Zhara recommended her. She’s just a child, but frankly…” Oliver sighed. “There are worse places for a tiefling her age to find employment.”

“Oh, keep telling me gossip,” Kajack urged, twirling a lock of hair around his finger. “I’m loving this.”

Oliver snorted. “Try again later when I’m off my guard, sir. I love my job. I don’t intend to spill secrets.”

The streets of Bellichi were white sandstone. Every few paces, the road was flanked by a thick stone planter, from which grew a stubby grey-green hedge, a manicured tree, or some spiny breed of succulent. Kajack watched a human woman in overalls not unlike his own climb up a stepladder and precariously extend a pair of clippers into the branches of a perfectly coiffed juneberry tree.

“Morning, Cora,” called Oliver, and the woman shaded her eyes and waved the clippers at him.

There were men with dark eyeshadow and ladies in puffed dresses and long, silky sleeves and parasols. A few bustling round men in mustard suits were trotting down the sidewalks, arm in arm. Kajack stared openly at the men. Most were dressed in those stupid tight shirts, but a few had billowing poet sleeves, and one had unbuttoned his top practically to the waist. That one turned his head when the carriage passed. He had magical blue eyes, blue as the sky.

Kajack gasped. “Oh, fuck,” he whimpered, and sank in his seat. “I know that guy. Oliver, speed up!”

“It’s a horse-and-buggy, sir, it can’t go much faster than—”

Kajack forcefully turned his face away from the sidewalk as if avidly talking to Oliver and willed his brown hair to disguise him from his ill-advised hookup years ago. What was the guy’s name? Blernard? Bastion?

They passed without incident.

Kajack relaxed. “Asshole,” he muttered. He sighed. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew in Bellichi.”

“Have you never been here, sir?”

“No! I have! Once. When I was nine,” said Kajack. “Our mother disappeared, but we knew who our dad was, so we came here—” in all its immodesty and ugliness, dripping with the stains of a thousand narcissists moaning and heaving into their own golden mirrors—“and asked for help. He looked right at me,” said Kajack, “and told me there was too much of me, that I should ‘spare the world’ from having to look at my  _ excess.” _ He recalled the little speech word for word. His voice didn’t change. “He didn’t tell my brother that, only me.”

It never struck Kajack to suppress regurgitating the parts of his life that had hurt him.

“Sir—”

“Ooh, um, shit,” Kajack cried. He gave himself a little shake. “Would you keep that quiet, Oliver? That I had a brother? I think my father got confused about our genders.” The excuse came easy off his lips. “We’re half-elves, so… but he talked about my sister earlier and I just went along with it. I don’t wanna make him question how little he really knows about me.”

Oliver was watching the road. Kajack glanced at Oliver’s hands on the reins. His knuckles were white. “How far were you from Bellichi when your mother left you?” Oliver asked.

“Well, honestly, I don’t know if she  _ left us  _ left us,” Kajack sighed. Now the tension was gone and the carriage was heading into a turn. He stretched his spine, pushing his chest forward and shoulders back, and just as his bones cracked he saw at once the ocean enormous, glittering like a bucket of sequins, a rich, deep royal blue he’d only ever seen in expensive illustrations of violets and butterflies and old priest robes. He was caught off guard. “Um…” he said at last. “Oh! I don’t really remember. But I think we were around the Murkwell area.”

“That’s quite a ways to travel,” said Oliver neutrally.

The city was transforming itself before Kajack’s eyes. Oliver turned down a side street, and just like that, the buildings went from sprawling glossy four-story townhouses—gargoyles perched on the arched roofs and all—to modest two- or one-story homes and cottages. There were fewer planters along the road here. Kajack craned his neck up out of the carriage window to see a portly elven woman in an apron shaking out bedsheets on a low balcony, and then, a few dozen feet down the street, a pale-skinned older human man relaxing on his porch, puffing on a pipe.

“Morning, Mr. Rose,” said the man affably as they passed.

“Morning, Lund. How’s your wife?”

“Well as ever.”

The horses trotted on. Oliver turned his head toward Kajack and murmured, “I can tell you gossip about people outside the estate, if you’re interested.”

Kajack sat bolt upright. “Oh?”

“Well, that’s Lund, our old paperboy. His marriage may look stable from the outside, but I happen to know that both he and his wife have been exchanging secret anonymous love letters through the personals ads with the head of the Bellichi Fire Department. Neither of them know.”

“No,” Kajack gasped, delighted.

“Here we are.” Oliver tugged on the reins. The pair of horses hitched to their cart slowed and stopped next to a tall, thin brick-and-sandstone house with checkered curtains in the windows. Then Oliver snapped his fingers and murmured under his breath. The horses melted away into a light fog and dispersed. The carriage remained.

“I like to help out and pull their weeds for them,” said Oliver, unbuckling himself and climbing out. “When I have the opportunity, that is. They insist on paying me, of course, but gardening is, er, one of my passions. Unfortunately, the garden at the estate is self-maintaining, so—”

“You like to get your hands dirty?” said Kajack coyly.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” said Oliver. “Here.” He went up the stairs to a barrel near the front door (which was a pleasant two-tone mix of yellow and blue wood), dug around inside, and tossed Kajack a pair of dirty, stiff green gardening gloves. Then he grabbed a trowel by the blade. “You want to accompany me so badly, sir? You get to help.”

Yes! Kajack seized the tools. Anaris would hate the thought of his bougie son kneeling in the dirt, pulling weeds. It was barely relevant that in the score of his life he had never once gardened. He followed Oliver through a rusty little gate around to the backyard, which was wider and more lush than he would have expected from the slim facade, and immediately upon seeing a cluster of spiny plants threw himself to the soil and shoved his hands into the earth and seized a weed by the taproot.

“Not bad,” Oliver said, which made Kajack yank plants out of the ground with even more fervor, desperate to prove that he wasn’t just the blue-blooded fop Oliver clearly thought he was.

The novelty wore off fifteen minutes later.

“How do you know when to stop?” Kajack called, fighting the urge to wipe his muddy gloves across his forehead. His eyebrows itched. His knees were wet and his arms were burning, and the drops of sweat clinging to his skin were threatening to slip down into his eyes.

“Well, if you can still see weeds,” said Oliver, smiling, “keep going!”

Kajack pushed down hard into the ache in his knees and crawled to another clump of stiff, spiny green-black weeds. These wound across the ground like static lightning. “Is this stuff poisonous?” he panted. A ball of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Nope. That, uh, looks like devilburr to me. Common weed here. Actually, save that—it’s completely edible.”

Kajack sat back on his heels and looked critically at Oliver, really looked, for the first time since meeting him.

“What’s your story, Oliver?”

“Sir?”

“Like, why are you working for my dad? I get that he pays you well and stuff, but how did you end up here?”

Oliver blinked his heavy eyelids and parted his lips. “I would rather not discuss my life with you, sir,” he said finally. His voice was firm.

“C’mon! I told you that fucked-up story about when I was a kid!”

“You may tell me anything you wish about yourself,” Oliver said carefully, “and I will listen, but I refuse to even the scale for the sake of equilibrium alone. I prefer not to involve my personal life in my place of work.”

He’d shrunk into himself. Physically, he was, looked, colder, smaller now than before Kajack had spoken. His arms and chest moved clumsily inside his baggy sleeves. He just sat there, silent, ripping up grass like a kid.

“What’s with you?” Kajack asked, exasperated.

Oliver bundled up his sack of weeds and tossed it into the corner. “C’mon, sir,” he said briskly, getting to his feet. “Let’s—”

Then the back door swung open on silent oiled hinges and the woman came out. Kajack recognized the same clear skin and plump cheeks he’d ascribed to the Duchess and her daughter. This was the ex-Lady Luba Ati as much as it was Luba Zen, the Rasputin woman. She moved stumpily, broadly, the way a calm white polar bear glides across the snow on wide legs.

“Come inside,” said the Rasputin woman, jerking her head impatiently. “Fucking cold out here.”

You have to bear in mind that Kajack had not encountered easy grace like that from anyone, even Dr. Liberty Taro, since he’d arrived in Bellichi, so when she hustled them into the warm, cluttered, golden-brown kitchen and offered to feed them lunch, the youngest part of him lingered. She was tall, muscular, and comfortably in control, which reminded him of both Gwen and, in the weirdest way possible, Cro.

“We can’t stay for lunch,” said Oliver. He’d pulled out a stained-blue pocketbook and was squinting at its contents through a pair of spectacles. “I’m afraid I still have some shopping Lord Anaris wants me to do, and it’s going to storm later tonight, so we must get going. Thanks, Mrs. Zen.”

“Thank  _ you,  _ Ollie,” said Luba, smiling. Her eyes flicked over to Kajack.

She hesitated.

“And you, Mr. Anaris!” she added smoothly. Her accent had evaporated. “May I take this opportunity to apologize for assaulting you on the Anaris golf course yesterday morning? I was simply acting in the line of duty. It certainly—”

“Oh, my gosh,” cried Kajack, rolling his eyes. “Talk _normal!_ You helped kidnap me! We’re _there._ You don’t need to do the rich person voice. So, whatever, it’s your job, and it was a battle, and you won it fair and square, and I don’t hold it against you. It’s fine. It was a neat attack.”

Luba blinked at him, then drew herself up to her full height and leaned it all back against the counter, watching him carefully.

“Eh,” she said. “Not my job. I don’t work for Anaris, I work for Zhara. None of my business if you escape. I only hurt you because you hurt my boy.” She laid out the words like hot fresh swords. A warmth entered her eyes. Luba grinned and cocked her head to the side and rolled up her sleeves to her elbows. “Hear that?” she yelled. “I still haven’t terminated our contract!”

“Get bent!” came Zhara’s muffled voice from the other room.

“What I did to you,” said Luba to Kajack, “was Stunning Strike. Fifth level Monk attack. I’ll never see a pip from Anaris for it. I am just not… how you say in Mestrian…  _ hirable.” _ She grinned ferociously. “Go on, mister, ask how me and Zhara met.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Oliver grumbled. “Sir, we have to go. I still have to get back and budget for the rest of the month.” He put his hand on Kajack’s shoulder, warm on sweaty-warm, but Kajack shrugged it away and looked up at Luba imploringly.

Luba snorted. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Please!” said Kajack.

“I used to have lot of money,” she said quietly. “Lot of status, bright future. I had to leave. It was life or death. You don’t  _ know, _ boy. My sister, she’s pure evil. You ever been to Rasputina?” Kajack shook his head and self-consciously balled up his hands in his front pocket. “Not nice place to be runaway. I gave up my pride and started taking muscle jobs. Zhara needed a bodyguard.” She laughed hard. “He is stubborn little prick, and I’m too tough to say I fell in love! Mother’s mercy, there it is. No matter who it is, even if you hate ’em; when you save their life, it does something to you.”

“Sir,” Oliver protested. “I have—”

“I saved Hugearmious from drowning,” Kajack said. “What’s that mean for me? Because I’m not gonna marry Hugearmious.”

“That is what I’m saying,” she insisted. “That’s the point of me telling you this. I’m warning you. You been here four days and you already have someone owing you life debt. You better get out or you will form connections. You can’t afford to spread your heart around in Bellichi, else you’ll never get it back. We like to buy and sell.”

Kajack felt a hard sting behind his eyes. “Will you help me?”

She waved this away. “I don’t even know you,” she said incredulously. “Figure it out.”

“Sir!”

“Fine!” Kajack snapped. He sniffled and turned away. “Let’s go, Oliver! Didn’t you say you had other stuff to buy?”

Oliver said “yes” with a face so stern Kajack nearly gave in and apologized. Luba did apologize. She disappeared into the pantry for a few seconds before coming out again and pressing a handful of gorgeously swirled, weighted silver coins—rooks—into Oliver’s palm. Then she let them out the front door.

It was an uneasy, silent march to the marketplace.


	18. Kajack Gets Mugged

Oliver and Kajack emerged on foot into a sulfurous alleyway crammed with shops of dark brick. Kajack hugged himself tightly. The sun could not penetrate here, and the dirt road repelled heat in the exact way cement didn’t, so it was colder in the alleyway than it was on the main road. He could see his breath.

“What do you need to buy?” he whispered.

They had been to three shops already, and Oliver was clutching a paper bag of milk and sugar and flour and salt and boxes of eggs and other assorted staples, including, to Kajack’s secret pleasure, chives.

“Mushrooms,” Oliver breathed back. “These perfect juicy deep-sea mushrooms. They grow in very delicate conditions in underwater caves, and there is only one cave left in the world that produces mushrooms potent enough to satisfy the Lord. But there’s an embargo because of their, um,  _ special properties.  _ I’m afraid we can only get them through illicit means right now.” He drew Kajack close and guided him toward a dingy black storefront.

Oliver said, pointedly, “Let me do the talking.”

The grimy sign hanging above the door was etched with the faded word WUMLEY. It had a drawing of a fungus on it. This, Kajack observed, was a little on-the-nose. But when he followed Oliver in, jangling the rusty bell, it became apparent that it really was just a shop that sold mushrooms, and perhaps most of its stock was even legal to buy and sell.

Heaped in the corner of the dim shop was a stack of burlap sacks spilling over with rotting brown and white mushrooms. Then there were the classic glowing caps, stalkless, bundled in nets hanging from the ceiling throughout the store. He saw crisp black mushrooms protruding out of the walls, and thick rubbery green ones in pots on the shelves; flat and white-spotted lichen, timeless grey mushrooms as clear as smoked glass, and round shiny opalescent orbs in cages swarming with fat black flies. In a hanging basket near the counter were soft colorful oblong funguses that mimicked poisonous frogs so well Kajack had to blink at them until he was sure they weren’t going to leap onto his forehead.

A large man in a flowery apron emerged from the back room. “Ollie!” he greeted. He smiled wide. Kajack fixated on the man’s sallow jowls and bright white fangs. “You here to pick up your special order?”

“Yes,” said Oliver, hugging his grocery bag to his chest. Kajack edged away from the buzzing flies in the shiny mushroom cage.

“Name?”

“Erm. It should just be under Anaris.”

“You have the payment?”

“Yes.”

Oliver reached awkwardly behind the paper bag and put his hand down the front of his own tunic—Kajack caught a glimpse of wiry black chest hair—and withdrew a leather satchel he’d been wearing on a string around his neck. He struggled to undo the knot with his one free hand.

“Who’s your friend?” the vampire said, looking owlishly at Kajack. His hair was slicked back into a greasy blue-black ponytail. His elbows were ashy. Kajack took a step back.

Oliver unclasped the string. “Anaris trusts him.”

“I met a half-elf who looked just like you once,” said the vampire, staring avidly at Kajack, whose stomach clenched. “Bought unna me tinctures, he did.”

“Here.”

The vampire lost interest in Kajack. He snatched the sack from Oliver and emptied it on the counter. He began to mutter under his breath as he counted out each shiny gold queen. Then he swept them all into a drawer in a tremendous downpour of clattering and clinking, slammed it, and locked it with a little silver key.

“Good!” he said brightly. “Wait here.”

He clomped through the veil of moss hanging over the doorway to the back room. Kajack reached to touch a thin, spiraling violet stalk that was shedding a shimmering curtain of glowing purple flecks, but Oliver stopped him.

The vampire reemerged and set on the counter a light brown paper package. He snipped the twine encircling it with a pair of shears and unwound the packaging just enough to tip its contents toward Oliver for approval.

Kajack stood on his tiptoes. Much like the specimens hanging from the ceiling all around the shop, the mushrooms in this package were wrapped up in a thin net bag, through which they phosphoresced blue; but these particular mushrooms were smaller, darker, and possessed a much dimmer glow. He did not recognize them.

“This look right?” the vampire grunted. “You wanna taste to make sure? Remember, only one at a time.” He leered.

“I’m satisfied,” said Oliver.

The vampire wrapped up the mushroom package again and sealed it with fresh twine. He pulled out a tiny red ink pad from below the counter, licked his thumb, and stamped a thumbprint into the paper. “Paid in full,” he said. He pushed the package into Oliver’s arms. “Give my regards to Anaris.”

Oliver nodded. All the tendons in his throat were standing out. “You bet.” Then, clearly sensing something more was needed, he added, “How’s your brother?”, to which the vampire chortled and replied: “Still banking! But we can hope.”

And then it was over, and Oliver was letting out a gigantic breath as they went down the steps outside.

“Who was that?” Kajack asked curiously. He followed Oliver closely. “Are you okay? Was he going to hurt us if we said something wrong? What happened?”

Oliver trotted around a corner and stopped. Instead of answering, he hoisted the little package of mushrooms high onto his shoulder. “Carry these, sir?” he panted, waggling the heavy bag of groceries. “I wouldn’t normally ask, but…”

As Kajack reached to accept the bag, a claw-like hand grabbed him tightly from behind and in a flash of silver a rusty blade was pressed against his throat. He cried out in surprise. The grocery bag hit the ground with a  _ squorch  _ and fell over. Eggs rolled out. Whoever was holding the blade threw a ropy arm around Kajack’s midsection and restrained him. “Shut up!” came a clear, commanding, wholly unfamiliar voice. “Don’t say a word,  _ princeling!” _

The rest of it was in Common, but the last word was in a language he did not recognize.

“What do you want?” cried Oliver. Kajack flicked his eyes over. Oliver hadn’t dropped the mushroom package, but he was clutched tight against the downy chest of a bizarrely furry, exceptionally tall man. A much larger shape, squat, waist-height, shifted in a single rippling muscular movement in the shadows behind him. Kajack gaped. The image flooded together into one. The man was a centaur.

“Be still, gents!” said the person behind Kajack. “If you cooperate, this’ll be quick an’ easy! Don’t think, just start listing off the secret passageways in and out of Lord Valentino Anaris’s house.”

“But you just told me not to say a word,” Kajack whined.

The knife immediately dug into the flesh of his throat. He grimaced and shifted fearfully against the blade. Even if the threat alone weren’t alarming, the pressure was constricting his windpipe. His breaths came shallow.

Oliver spat on the dusty road. “I can’t!” he said, giving Kajack a dirty look. “I wish I could! But I can’t!”

Oh, right. If Oliver revealed any secret passageways in Kajack’s presence, then Kajack would slurp up those secrets just as readily as their muggers and use them to escape later.

Kajack squirmed. “Which ones do you know already?” he asked. (Oliver scowled at him.) “We don’t wanna waste your time explaining the ones you already know about—oww!” His captor kicked him hard in the back of the ankle. Kajack’s eyes watered. “Raleil! Okay, okay!” Now he was in the mood to lie. “So, there’s a secret hatch under the washtubs in the laundry room—”

Oliver’s eyes bugged out.

“—and I know there’s a trapdoor to the dungeons somewhere on the golf course—you gotta get a hole in one to unlock it—and, um, I think there’s a vent big enough to crawl through in the kitchens, but I haven’t been in the kitchens yet, so I don’t know for sure. And of course we can’t forget the sewer tunnels that lead to every rich-person bathroom in the city. Those are all the ones  _ I  _ know about. How about you?” He directed this question at Oliver. Later, Kajack would entertain himself with how light and airy his voice had been, as if they were exchanging gossip at a tea party on the hillside.

“Huh?” Oliver managed. “Uh—you’ve not been here four full days! How the  _ hell  _ do you know secrets even  _ I  _ don’t know?”

Kajack rolled his eyes. “Oh my gods, get a clue, Oliver,” he said scornfully. “Of course I freaking made them up—” His unseen mugger’s grip around his waist became tight.

“This is pointless,” said the centaur. His voice was deep and muddy. “They know nothing.”

“Beginnin’ to think you’re right, mate,” said the other one. “Bugger this.” The knives whipped away. The presence behind Kajack sank into the gloom. Quick as a blink, the centaur trotted away down a foggy side street and disappeared.

Kajack and Oliver looked at each other.

“Why do you think they—”

“We gotta get out of here,” Oliver said curtly. His skin was flushed and his hair was rumpled. Kajack said nothing.

They left the alley and came out, as it were, onto the corner of a quiet side street.

Oliver crossed to their parked carriage and jerked open the black iron door. “Get in,” he said coldly. Kajack frowned. He obediently stepped up on the crossbar and scooted his butt into the passenger seat. He didn’t know what he’d done to arouse Oliver’s personal wrath, or, worse, break the fragile understanding the two of them had begun to foster, or whether the fault was even his at all. Fretful, he reached to play with the charms on his bracelet and gasped.

“My bracelet!” he wailed. “I lost it! Oliver, please, I think the clasp broke, we have to go back and look for it!”

Oliver said nothing. A muscle in his jaw pulsed.

He cast the spell that summoned the pair of horses and flicked the reins. The ride back to the estate was quiet, but only because Kajack was shocked into silence by Oliver’s unforeseen, unthinkable cruelty.

The entrance.

The hallway.

“Oliver?” Kajack cried.

“Sir, please,” Oliver burst out. He waved the brown paper package in his arms. “I have to go put these mushrooms in the safebox. Lord Anaris needs to know about this threat to his security. Please find him and tell him about the strangers and what they wanted from us.”

Kajack stared at him in disbelief. “I won’t—”

_ “Kajack!” _ cried Oliver, distressed. He actually stamped his foot. “I have more work to do now than I ever have,  _ and  _ I have to run back into town and replace the groceries! Just this one thing! It’ll hardly conflict with your agenda to escape; it isn’t even  _ about you! _ I’m  _ sorry  _ about your bracelet, but—”

He looked horrified.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said quickly, and bowed. He hunched his shoulders and stomped down the northern corridor. Kajack stared after him, wrong-footed and hollow.

With mounting agitation, he turned around and walked briskly through the house, up the stairs, around the familiar beveled corner, and through the unlocked door into Anaris’s study without even knocking. Lord Anaris looked up from a stack of rolled yellow parchment and smiled. His smile fell when he saw Kajack’s overalls, but he didn’t comment.

“Perfect timing, Kajack. You remember the Princess,” he said graciously, motioning to the blonde girl from the dinner party. She was sitting with her legs together on a stool by the window, looking out.

“Hello!” said Kajack, impatient.

“The Duchess Castra Ati and the Princess Darla Ati will be residing in our guest rooms and partaking of our services for the following month,” Anaris told him. “I expect you to be on your best behavior while we are entertaining guests.”

Kajack looked over at the Princess. Now she was gazing at him unblinkingly. He recalled the two men inspecting and hefting for weight and worth the package of mushrooms in the mushroom shop.

He turned back to Anaris and, bracelet temporarily forgotten, began: “So Oliver and I just got—”

“Kajack, I should like you to get to know the Princess better while she is here,” Anaris interrupted, smiling thinly. “It is useful, politically and socially, to become acquainted with those in your peer group. You will not be crass or common when you are speaking to her. The Princess is a lady.”

The Princess blushed.

But the hue kept on spreading. Her skin went pink in a slow, blotchy spiral, blossoming out from her cheeks to her forehead. Her hair darkened to a soft violet-black. Her pupils widened until her eyes were as black and inky as a meerkat’s. Three horns sprouted from her forehead.

“What,” said Anaris flatly.

Kajack took a step back. Now the girl was standing up, rising slowly from her ankles to her round hips, in one glorious, flowing motion that might have been part of her bizarre metamorphosis. Even her dress warped and twisted from its subdued orange to a pale peach. Her hands became sharp and black.

In a blink, standing there in her modest apron and puffed sleeves was the young tiefling housekeeper, Montgomery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 wallace wumley <3


	19. Lord Anaris Explains His Romantic History

“Monty!” Anaris roared, thunderstruck. “But—but the  _ Princess—” _

“Aha! I am she,” said Monty. She bowed deeply. Her black eyes flashed with humor. “The Princess Darla Ati, at your service. Stupid name, I always thought.”

“Tell me everything,  _ now,”  _ said Anaris urgently. He hustled behind his desk and threw himself down in the great chair, waving a hand at Kajack, whose mouth was still hanging open. “Close the door, Kajack! Quick!” At this, Kajack scowled, but he did want to know, too, so he kicked the door closed, and it slammed with a crack.

“Monty, tell me, what in all the world is going  _ on!” _ Anaris pleaded.

She shrugged and smiled faintly. “Where should I start?”

“Anywhere!” said Kajack. “Oh my gosh, I wanna know why you’re working for my dad if you’re the Duchess’s daughter  _ and  _ a  _ literal princess!  _ Or did you steal her identity? Oh my gosh, did you kill that Darla girl and take her place?”

“It’s a bit of a story—”

“Go on!” they urged.

“Ha!” crowed Monty. She stepped lightly around the office and came to perch on the escritoire. “No stolen identities here. So, I guess the story starts a couple years before my birth. A long time ago, somebody in my family made a pact with a demon in the Nine Hells. I don’t think the Duchess Ati expected to bear a demon child, did she?”

“No,” said Anaris, eyes wide. “We were told she gave the baby away because of your poor health…”

Monty snickered. She looked down at the polished floorboards. Her pink cheeks were dimpled, and her pointed teeth protruded over her upper lip like an orc’s. She was barely five feet tall. “Nope,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I never knew I was a princess.  _ She  _ was so happy to get rid of me she gave me to the Lady Dellatessa. A distant relative of my father’s,” she added quickly, “who just happens to be a tiefling. I—I had a good childhood. Lots of tiefling siblings. I even had my own little black cat. I was good at math. I wanted to be a conductor.”

“You are awfully good at math,” said Anaris. He was stroking his beard. “Heavens know what I’d do without you.”

“When I first heard of the Duchess, I was a little starstruck,” she went on darkly. “Horrible child! But haven’t we all had that dream? That we’re secretly a princess, that we’ve had this secret fantasy life waiting to whisk us away? Was the academy not good enough for me?” She smiled falsely and stared at the wall. “I guess not. My real mom helped me draft a letter to my biological mom, and the Duchess replied with an offer to let me visit. I was supposed to make up a human face and live as the Princess for a summer as an experiment and see how I liked it. But now I’ve been here for a year and a half. No visits allowed.”

Kajack winced.

“The Duchess Ati is terrible,” Monty said with finality. “I  _ hate  _ her. I can’t write my real mom and tell her the truth, because the Duchess could retaliate and crush my family. Anyone with the Ati name is higher in status than Lady Dellatessa. Especially here in Mestrus.”

“We can’t forget the Duchess’s military connections,” Anaris said.

“Yes,” said Monty. “The Keepers call her Madame Informant, and I know she knows the Fuhrer personally—”

“Like Lady Emeraude,” said Anaris, looking at Kajack.

“—and I’m her only heir. To answer your question, Mr. Anaris—”

“Oh, if we’re whipping out secrets, you’d better call me Kajack!” said Kajack, who was fascinated.

“Kajack,” she said, rubbing a clump of keratin off the side of her horn. “I’m telling you, I can’t  _ stand  _ the Duchess! It’s just not a good scene for a tiefling, Keepers crawling all over, so I made a deal with her. I’d live with my biological aunt. The Duchess only ever wants me around so I can make public appearances as the Princess anyway, and she hates my guts the other hundred and sixty hours of the week. So I’ve been living with Aunt Luba and Uncle Zhara.”

Monty said all this without drawing breath. She inhaled and turned to Anaris.

“And then you offered me a job,” she cackled. “The Duchess is always talking shit about you, and  _ you  _ offered me a  _ job!  _ Thanks for that. Cleaning’s fine, but I like running errands and tracking people and exploring. Got a solid resumé for when I get outta here.” Monty cracked her strawberry knuckles.

“I’m stunned,” said Anaris flatly. “Truly. I never suspected you were living a double life. And I  _ knew  _ you were a Rakshasa tiefling.” He sighed, uncurled himself from the chair, and stalked over to the window. “I should have known. Bravo, Monty.”

“You are the coolest person I know right now,” Kajack confessed to Monty. “Oh my gosh, I am literally about to tell you all my secrets. You’ve given me such a gift just telling me about your life. I feel like I owe you a debt.”

Anaris’s voice went sharp. “Monty, does Castra know you work for me? Your role at my estate is a secret, correct?”

“Hell, she doesn’t even know I know you.”

“Oh, it’s  _ Castra  _ now?” Kajack interjected. “Out in the ballroom it’s Duchess whatever, but in your office we’re on a first-name basis? What’s the story there?”

A shadow passed over Anaris’s face.

“I also want to know,” said Monty. “All I know is, she doesn’t trust you. I’m curious to know why she wanted to stay in your guest rooms.”

Anaris clenched his teeth. He swung around to face Monty. “Your mother and I,” he said, looking hunted. “We had—”

He tossed his head wildly and went back behind his desk and opened a drawer and started rummaging through it, apparently without impetus.

He said, clearly, into the open desk drawer, “I have known, and loved, several women over the course of my life.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I am going to tell you both a brief history. You can judge me as you may, but perhaps you will understand a little more with context.

“The first was Kajack’s mother,” he said, opening his eyes. “I was a young fool, perhaps Kajack’s age, when I met Rhea Molucella. She was a traveling minstrel who came to our estate to entertain. I fell blindly in love, real love, and ran off with the woman soon after. When I tell you I lived by her side as a—a poor, suffering vagabond for two years—two years! Ridiculous. I finally came to my senses and returned home after she fell pregnant with the second one.”   
  
“Thanks for that,” Kajack sneered.

“After a terrible, botched string of courtships, I met Castra. She was different. I did not love her,” said Anaris quietly. “She was married at the time to your biological father, Princess, but that’s, erm, another story. Shortly after we met we began something like an affair. I suppose you both know—about—what goes on in affairs?”

Monty went rigid. “Yes, boss, I should hope I’ve had the talk. I’m sixteen.”

Anaris looked awkward. “Well, a girl, I mean, sometimes young women aren’t told until their wedding—”   
  
“Ooh, I don’t,” said Kajack merrily. “I don’t know what that is. Explain it to me.”

_ “Kajack,  _ Raleil on  _ high—” _ _   
_ _   
_ “O-M-G, of course I know!” Kajack cried. “I’m  __ joking.  Keep telling the story.”

Anaris glared at him. “Well, there was none of that. We were very close friends, but our ‘affair,’ as it were, was chaste. We carried on this way for a year. Then… at last, I behaved indiscreetly, and in response, your mother… well, the Duchess Ati mutilated me.”

“What did you do?” Monty whispered. “What did  _ she  _ do?”

Anaris actually winced. “I will spare you the details, dear girl. It’s not polite. All you must know is that I attempted to win her favor, and she hurt me terribly and caused me an intimate injury that will stay with me for the rest of my life. The Duchess Castra Ati is a psychotic bitch. A—a sucking  _ whore.” _ He said it with more venom than Kajack had ever heard from him. “I am making myself sound like the victim, I realize it, but the woman is a conniving, selfish—”

“Don’t call ladies whores,” said Monty in a small voice.

“Did you deserve it?” asked Kajack sharply, having grasped better than Monty the nature of the act that had resulted in Anaris’s long-term medical condition.

Anaris rubbed his eyebrow with the knuckle of his thumb.

It may as well have been just him and Kajack in the room. Anaris was broken, pleading, and wounded, and if the helplessness in his voice was fake, it was better than most stage acting Kajack had seen. He ran his hand through his hair. “I wonder about it every day of my life,” he said tonelessly. His hand went down to his belt. “I don’t think I deserved it. I didn’t inflict equivalent violence upon her first, if that is what you are asking me. Yes, I asked her for her hand, but I did not pressure her, or attack her, or—”

“How can we believe you?” asked Monty. She had retreated to the wall of the study and was leaning against it, cool and calm, but her eyes were wide, and her black claws were twitching against her leg.

Anaris looked away. Then he looked straight into Kajack’s eyes and said, “I have cheated you, kidnapped you, hurt you, and threatened you. But I have never lied to you.” His eyes were sad. “I have no reason to lie now.”

There was silence in the room.

Anaris bit his knuckle. “I—I feel, have felt, that I am a man who would rather compromise his dignity by admitting his wrongdoings than by pretending they never existed,” he said awkwardly. He was shaking his head back and forth, slowly, as if he had water in his ears.

“I actually believe him,” Kajack whispered to Monty.

“I don’t need your respect, Kajack. I don’t even need you to like me,” said Anaris, still troubled. “Nor you, Monty! But I don’t want either of you to walk around believing that I am the sort of man who would take a woman by force.”

“No,” said Kajack angrily. “Just me.”

Anaris closed his eyes. “Gods, Kajack, please.” He didn’t defend himself. “Anyhow, years later, I met the Lady Weivieria on a trip abroad with my manservant. She was charming, funny… those big, doll eyes! That charming laugh! What could I do but show her Mestrian hospitality? At last I had real happiness within my grasp. Fate intervened in the shape of the Masked Moonflower and ruined my prospects. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors by now, Kajack. That part of my life is over. I will die an unmarried man.”

Lord Anaris was a world away. His eyes, which were cast off in the vague direction of a bookshelf, were wet.

“I never loved again,” he said.

“What, do you want  _ sympathy?”  _ Kajack cried.

Anaris came back to himself and barked out a mirthless laugh. “Of all the grossly entitled—! No! This is no tragic backstory. I want for nothing, let alone pity. I have no regrets.”

He spread his arms wide.

“All this to explain why I am hosting the Atis at my estate. I want to end the animosity between myself and Castra. Forgive and forget. It was always petty, you see, and nothing constructive ever happens when the offense is personal. To that end, I would  _ like  _ it if you and Princess—er, Monty—were married, Kajack. I have been toying with the idea of arranging the union myself. The political opportunities such a marriage presents—”

“Oh, no,” said Kajack.

“No!” said Monty, aghast.

“No! I’m not marrying a  _ kid!”  _ Kajack cried. “What’d you say you were, Mont, sixteen?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Gods, you two, you’d be waiting until she’s eighteen, her mother doesn’t want to marry her off until she’s older anyway,” said Anaris, tired. “But,  _ if you had let me finish, _ I was going to say I’m reconsidering it now that I know the Princess has practically lived under my roof for the past six months. There. Are you happy?”

“Not really!” said Kajack hotly. “I was kinda hoping you’d learn something from seeing the whole ‘kidnap your heir’ thing from an outside perspective, but it’s starting to seem like we’re just gonna blaze past that and talk about how your exes wronged you all day!”

Anaris narrowed his eyes into thin, red-rimmed slits. “I never said I was perfect,” he growled. “I am trying.”

“If I’m stuck here anyway,” Monty said patiently, “then you could be my ticket out, Kajack! If I cooperate with her until I’m eighteen, then I could marry someone sympathetic, and they could agree to fake their death and let me go and then I could be a powerful widow. Think of what I could do with that power.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Monty, but I won’t be here in two years,” said Kajack, crossing his arms. “I’ll slit my own throat before I let that happen. And that’s a promise.”

Anaris closed his eyes. “Please tell me, Kajack,” he said, in a delicate voice, “that you did not just entertain the idea of suicide in front of a vulnerable teenager.”

“I’m not a role model! I never asked to—”

Kajack went quiet.

He looked over at Monty, speechless.

“It’s fine,” said Monty impatiently. “I know the point you’re making is that you want to escape! I get it! If I could I would do the same thing. But like I said, what I’m worried about is the Duchess going after my family. She doesn’t like tieflings. If I can resolve this peacefully without hurting anyone, then that’s the way I want to do it.”

Anaris looked like he was fighting with something. He gnawed on the heel of his hand and flicked his eyes rapidly between Kajack and Monty. At last, he said, “This changes everything, does it not? I can’t in good conscience send royal blood to do my errands, nor can I act as though I have not oft lent my ear to your adolescent struggles, Princess. What do I do?”

“Maybe if you let me go,” Kajack suggested. “Tell the Duchess it’s a hot new fad to let your kidnapped children—”

“It’s not all about you, Kajack,” Monty cried, suddenly and passionately.

That hurt.

It hurt because it was startling. It had come without warning.

It hurt because it was Monty saying it and not Anaris, of whom Kajack had come to expect cruel, if objectively true, statements. Monty he had already begun to see as a friend.

Anaris said in a mild voice: “She’s right. Consider the facts. As a young, female tiefling, heir to a woman with close political ties to the Fuhrer, she is more at risk than you—a male half-elf. No? We should be focusing on Monty instead of trying to use her plight as leverage. You see?”

Kajack reached deep, deep into his heart and at last gripped his own voice. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I see.”

By instinct alone he wanted to ask if Anaris was capitalizing on Monty’s situation in a deliberate bid to inspire this horrible feeling of humiliation in Kajack, or, worse, if he had arranged all of this to make Kajack feel like a lower priority on the grand scale and thus less deserving of a rescue effort. But Monty was right.

It was not all about him.


	20. Pulleys

Monty waited patiently until she and Lord Anaris were alone in the office. When Kajack went out, she yanked a colorful notebook out of her apron pocket and thumped it onto Anaris’s desk. She flipped it open to a page near the end where she had painstakingly copied down the same complex circular symbol Anaris had first noticed on the back of Kajack’s hand.

“I was getting nothing looking at shipping labels, so I went to the library and cross-referenced it with the historical section,” said Monty. “Here’s what I got. The symbol is related to the god Zephrauna. I think your son is one of this generation’s seven Sages. Do you know what that means, boss?”

“No…”

The story she told him then was so ancient her breath may as well have smelt of dust.

The first Sages were born, she said, when Ga appeared with ill intent at the birth of the godly child made from the love and milk of Makah, the god of the earth, and Zephrauna, the god of karmic energy. (Monty took care to explain this part because Lord Anaris wasn’t particularly religious, and she wasn’t sure what sort of education nobles of his status received, but this was kindergarten-level stuff, so he waved it away impatiently.) Ga subdued those in attendance, cursed the child, and wove a chrysalis of sleep over Zephrauna, who had thus far stood in the way of his quest to reshape the world according to his dark visions. As Zephrauna fell to deadly slumber, her fury infused seven mortals scattered across Tharcaen with the divine ability to reawaken her and seal Ga.

The Sages rose.

After they put a stop to Ga’s wicked plot, they were reborn again into every generation. Secret. Unidentifiable. Unknown. But every two hundred years or so, whenever Ga broke free and tried again, their identity would reemerge, the Sage symbol would appear ritualistically on the backs of their hands, and all of them—seven, and one Champion, which was the key, kind of, that activated the Sages’ powers—would save the world. Or lose it forever. At least one world, one civilization, one People (said Monty), had already fallen.

“That’s the best I can do,” she told him. “We might have better luck if you had kidnapped a historian.”

Anaris said nothing for a moment. Then:

“And my son is one of these… heroes. My, my.”

Monty shrugged. “That’s all I know. Either way, I think it answers the question of where the box came from.”

“God?” Anaris said pointedly, cocking an eyebrow. “My son is using the heavens as his own personal pharmacist?”

_ “Or  _ someone is very quick on the mark and used the symbol as a way to identify him,” Monty hastened to say. “I imagine if the box was mislaid, or if he was somehow incapacitated and some innocent person found it, they would know to pass it on to the Sages. I’m saying that—whoever is sending him packages—they know what he is. That’s my point.”

“So,” said Anaris, not listening, “the Sages have awoken. The world is in peril. If I don’t let Kajack fulfill his destiny, Tharcaen as we know it will be unmade.”

He leaned forward and gazed at the open journal page. It flickered orange in the candlelight. He could’ve sworn the symbol was twisting and rippling.

“I could keep him long enough to sire a child,” he said doubtfully. “That’d be easy. One night, a quick test, and once we’re sure…”

“Not with me!”

“Not with you,” said Anaris harshly. He stood. “I told you! That plan changed the moment I found out the truth. I wonder. I don’t know any high-class girls his age he could be convinced to knock up.” He tapped his knuckle against his lips. “But I suppose it would be an easy trade,” he said finally. “His freedom for a successor. I could raise the child myself. He would have no part in it. All I want is his seed, and then he can go.”

“Gross,” said Monty severely. “Say it different.”

“Of course I would  _ like  _ to turn him into a proper gentleman who values his status,” Anaris muttered, pacing now. The tips of his elegant fingers skimmed across the surface of the desk as he moved. “Can’t have him running around making a mockery of my lineage… Tell me, Monty, how long do we have before it is imperative we let him go, or risk losing the world? Years? Months?”

Monty shrugged helplessly. “It’s not consistent.”

Anaris sighed. “Well, thank you. You’ve done well. I’ve kept you too long; all we’ve done today is talk-talk-talk.” He snapped his fingers. “Better walk out of here as a human. If anyone were to see you…”

Monty raised her eyebrows. Her forehead wrinkled pleasantly around her third, central horn. “The Princess and I are the same age, no? Every other time I’ve slipped up, whoever saw me has just assumed we’re secret girlfriends.”

“Well,” said Anaris uncomfortably. “That may be an easy excuse for you, but my guards will wonder why the Princess entered and no one left but my housekeeper. Transform.”

She hesitated. “No.”

“What?”

“I won’t.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Knowing what you know, knowing I’m a princess, knowing you’re only my boss because I wanted you to be, can you still order me around?”

“Why, yes. Yes, if this persona expects to keep her job. It’s not as if I permit a union.”

“No one’s out there. No one’s  _ looking.”  _ Monty burned. Other students at the academy had said she was small and goth and a little spooky. “Whatever happened to how you ‘can’t in good conscience’ order me around? It doesn’t feel good to change my skin and my features just because someone told me to. I’m not a doll you can dress up or swap out for parts.  _ She’s  _ the only one who can make me change, and then only because I’m scared of her. I’m not scared of you.”

Monty went to the door and immediately smacked Kajack—who reeled back, clutching his nose—in the face with it. He mouthed something at her, pained, and made some wild, silent, outraged gestures. He had been listening at the door.

“What?” she mouthed, furious. “You?”

“Shh!”

Monty quietly shut the door behind her and engaged Kajack in a brief, soundless wrestling match for the right to speak. They glared at each other.

“I can’t believe you’re in  _ cahoots _ with him,” Kajack hissed.

“Cahoots?”

“You’re making plans to set me up with some rich lady so you can get a high-class baby out of me! And you told him I was a Sage!” All of this was whispered.

“Yes!” she spat back. “I had to! He’s my boss!”

“Yeah, but I thought we were on the same side here!”

She just looked at him. Her eyes were a deep, milky black.

Tiefling eyes aren’t unreadable. Feeling isn’t represented by the white, nor the iris, nor the pupil, which is more beholden to light and shadow than anger or joy. The blank solid black Kajack looked into did not preclude depth of emotion. For example: Monty’s eyes narrowed and a muscle deep inside her face pulled at the corners. Her jaw was clenched.

Agitated, more agitated than her, he turned away.

Kajack wanted nothing more than to run to his cramped Lumen dorm room with the creaky braided rug and the smell of stone and throw himself under the big patchwork covers. But he couldn’t. What a strange thing, to have a body that could not go where it wanted! You could jail a mind, you could infect a feeling, you could imprison a heart, and none of these terrible slights were new to Kajack, but now he was a trapped body, and that was impossible. He was a bewildered fox yapping and scratching its own bear-trapped leg. He passed a few clusters of servants and then a flock of high-society neighbors and ignored them all.

He walked straight past the door to the endless spiral of stairs, tearful, fists clenched at his hips, moving oddly with small brisk steps as if he were wearing a very tight dress, and continued down the corridors until he was facing the door to the laundry.

He opened it and went in.

His tears cleared away. “Nice,” he said to himself.

Half the eastern wall was missing. The breeze and the chilly light brought with them the pleasant smell of drying laundry. Not nice was the fact that this missing wall didn’t open up to a passable walkway or escape route, but instead a round, ceiling-less chamber half again Kajack’s height. He tried and failed to find purchase on the stone walls. It was like looking up from the bottom of a well, if a well were wide and squat. All he could see up there was a sturdy tree branch, black against the sky.

Here was an interesting observation about Oliver’s face during the mugging: for one furtive glimpse, it had looked chagrined.

Had Kajack actually managed to identify a way out?

Second observation: Oliver was, by his own assertion, preoccupied. There was no one in here, just rows and rows of washtubs and clotheslines dripping over vents. If there really was a way out through the laundry, then Oliver had either underestimated Kajack, or he’d forgotten, in his rush, to set a guard.

Third observation: Kajack’s red sweater was dangling from a clothesline near the aperture. He recovered it and slithered in. The smell he had come to associate with it was gone, but the texture was just the same, and so he slipped his arms up through the sleeves and hugged himself in the damp fabric, drowning in red. Now. Where had he claimed that passageway was?

He couldn’t remember.

Kajack prowled the room. He ran his hands across the stone-brick walls for a lever or switch. He dropped to his haunches and patted the ground. He grabbed one of the washtubs and dragged it a few feet, slopping soapy water across the stone floor. Then another. The muscles in his arms began to cry out for relief. The floor beneath the tubs was bare.

With absolutely no forewarning, Kajack’s brain opened.

The Sending came in the voice of the Records and Communications office at the Lumen whose name Kajack had solidly forgotten—the kindly dwarf with the sea beads in his hair—and it went like this:

_ Molucella. Delta squad returned; assigned to critical mission: Lumen spy gone rogue. Hold position. Will send rescue party ASAP. Your situation not priority! Report status. _

Kajack sat down right where he was standing and cried.

When he was done, he crawled across the stone floor and, huddled against the wall between oily rainbow puddles of soapy water, began the laborious process of counting out the words for his response:

_ Status: distressed! My father’s a monster! Can’t believe you guys don’t consider what I’m going through a pressing issue. What’s the Delta squad without me? _

Even the Lumen would not help him.

Kajack waited for another Sending and was unsurprised when none came. It figured. They were so busy with their stupid spy situation or whatever that they couldn’t even be bothered to console their hottest, funniest, coolest operative. He sat there thinking ugly thoughts until it occurred to him that wasting time being prideful was exactly what Anaris wanted him to do.

He got to his feet and immediately fell into a hysterical panic, wholly convinced a servant was about to walk into the laundry room and shoo him away. He had to escape now! But the bracelet was gone! He sprang to the little open chamber that let in the wind and tried once again to climb the low wall, but the stone bricks were sealed with a tough, smooth cement and he couldn’t worm his fingers between them. Frustrated by the smell of freedom so close and yet so unreachable, he stepped back and twisted his wrists in his hands. The only sound in the chamber was his own panting gasps and the distant dripping of water.

“Oh my gosh,” Kajack said scornfully. “I’m a moron.”

He picked up a tough-looking wicker laundry basket and emptied it onto the ground. For good measure, he kicked the pile of dirty clothes across the floor. Then he climbed up on one of the washtubs and cut the tough clothesline cord, which immediately fell to the floor with a thump. Kajack ran along the cord, emptying it of clothespins and drying laundry until it was free of danging passengers, and unhooked the other end of the clothesline from the wall. Now he had a sturdy rope.

“C’mon, c’mon, Kajack,” he muttered to himself.

He went to the aperture and stood in the little open chamber and swung the cord like a lasso above his head until it was whistling. His arm hurt, but the pain was easily balanced out by how cool it felt to do something strength-dependent all on his own. He bet he looked like a cowboy.

Then he let go.

Pulleys again. It figured. Kajack Molucella, hardly a physics genius, was saving the day with simple machines.

The end of the rope sailed upward and almost crested over the sturdy black tree branch, but at the last second it fell short and landed softly on the stone.

Okay. Try again. This time Kajack tied a pair of balled-up socks—these, too, were coming in handy in unexpected ways—to the end of the rope to give it a little extra weight. Just then the laundry door opened. Kajack whipped his head around in time to see a human with a pink apron enter and descend the stone steps. They paused.

They let out a gasp. Their gaze traveled slowly across the ravaged chamber.

Their horrified eyes rose to meet Kajack’s. He grimaced at them and fluttered his fingers in a wave.

Cupping their hands over their mouth, the human gave a little shriek and backed away. They turned and darted back down the corridor, slamming the door behind them.

Kajack resumed his activity, quicker now. He swung the rope like a flail around his head. Yeehaw! He let go.

Yes!

He snatched the other end of the cord, balled-up socks and all, as it sank toward him from the tree branch above. Now he had two sections of rope dangling from the sky. Kajack bent over the laundry basket and laced one end of the rope through the handles. He gave it a doubtful tug. It looked steady.

Triumphant, he clambered in and gave the other end of the clothesline a good, hard pull.

Nothing. The basket didn’t budge. It was like yanking on a rope tied to a house.

He tried again, harder, and rose perhaps an inch off the ground. His arms were screaming for mercy. The thin cord shrieked against his palms, tearing skin. Then the clothesline slipped out of his sweaty grip, and he and the basket thumped back down.

Ugh. It was exactly like with Hugearmious. He couldn’t hoist his own body weight up all by himself; he’d need something heavier on the other end to counterbalance the basket. He dragged one of the full washtubs over, dumping a good pint of soapy liquid all over his socks in the process, and knotted the other end of the cord to the handle. He climbed back into the basket and experimentally yanked.

Nope. It was exactly as arduous as before. Kajack clenched his core and pulled with all his might. His heart began to race with excitement as he and the laundry basket slowly, slowly, slowly spiralled into the air. He pulled as if climbing, hand over hand.

Now he could see the edge of the world appearing over the stone wall in greens and yellows. He craned his neck as the basket spun in a circle. The trick would be leaping out from the basket and clearing the wall at the exact right moment. He tensed. His legs ached from frog-crouching.

Kajack jumped! He scrambled out of the basket onto the wall and propelled himself over the edge! His arms shrieked with pain, and he forced himself to uncurl his lightning-white fists from the clothesline before it turned his palms to ribbons. He plunged through the air wildly, waving his arms, and landed heavily on his knee and hip—he heard a pop—bounced once, twice, and caught himself on his throbbing arms.

“Oww!” he whined loudly, outraged.

The lack of immediate response or sympathy was so alien to Kajack that after a minute he raised his head, cupping his banged-up knee, and looked around. He was alone in the grassy courtyard. Off to the left was the vast golf course. Behind him was the lapping sea. Dead ahead of Kajack was an intricate cottage fence a ten-year-old could climb. No guards. Not a witness in sight.

It looked like rain.

He wobbled to his feet. His heart pounded.

Kajack dashed forward and hoisted himself up the fence. His fingers dug into the lattice. He scrambled up the way a woodland animal shoots up a tree. Then there was nothing on his fingers but air—his stomach dropped—and he landed ungracefully, skidding forward a few hopping steps, on his heels in the mud on the other side!

Take  _ that,  _ Gwen! he crowed, pumping his arm in the air. There  _ is  _ a practical use to sneaking out with Luma!

This wasn’t the time to hoot and holler about his victory. Sooner or later, that human with the pink apron was going to return. He gulped down a misty breath and sprinted forward for the beckoning streets of Bellichi and vanished, sweater flapping loosely behind him, into the docks.


	21. Kennick's Letters 1

Shelby River   
House by the Fields   
Shirey   
  
Dear Shelby,   
  
Believe me, my intention ain’t to flood Shirey with postmen! I just haven’t quite gotten out of the habit of writin’ since I gave up my journal, and I miss it. The sound of a pen scratchin’ on paper clears my head, and if I can’t express my thoughts somewhere, they just circle around and around in my brain until I’m sick of them. But more importantly, talkin’ to you is the simplest and sweetest joy in my life.

I’ll miss the other half of this conversation so much! I know it’s nearly impossible to address postage to an adventurer (unless you come across a VERY dedicated mail-carrier), so I won’t be hearin’ from you for a while.

Not that this adventurer is doin’ much adventurin’ right now. As much as I want to write, there continues to be a frustratin’ lack of things to say.   
  
I admit it. I’m discouraged.   
  
Bannockburn ain’t the place for quests, I guess, and it’s especially annoyin’ ’cause I was so confident there would be spades of adventurin’ parties here. I thought I’d be fightin’ off desperate party leaders in want of bards every time I walked down the street. But it seems like ever since the military overran the city, everyone’s been keepin’ their heads down and tryin’ not to cause any drama.   
  
At least I have an alternative. Your suggestion of pokin’ around the ports is lookin’ more appealin’ every day.   
  
You know, startin’ tomorrow, I may as well buckle down and do it.   
  
My only reservation is that I get dreadfully seasick. I really can’t afford to let myself get swept away by the romance of sea life. I adored pirate stories as a kid, but even though I still mildly yearn to carry around a cutlass, I know the limits of my own body, and I’m afraid one whiff of dead fish on a swayin’ ship is just too much for me. I suppose my only hope is to find a party that’s travelin’ inland. (I bet I know what Momma R. would say to all this. Harden your heart and your gut, Kennick; the world isn’t kind…

But I know all that already.)   


I miss you, Bees, so much. Kisses to Lu.   
  
Kennick   



	22. Kennick's Letters 2

Dear Shelby,   
  
The port I’m writin’ from is startlingly elf-heavy, which alarms me ’cause I thought it was originally a dragonborn settlement. What happened to them?

Foreboding feelings aside, I’ve never met a full-blooded elf before! Their features and vivacity remind me so much of our lost friends that my heart is snappin’ in two. Honestly, Bee, they don’t just move like the Molucellas, they have the same eyes and laughs and ears and everything. I’ve been double-takin’ all over the city thinkin’ I’ve spotted Kajack. I’m sure I look just like a lost, plain tourist, which is technically the truth.   
  
The good news is that you were absolutely right. Seems that when the gods close a door, all you need is a rogue to pick it open again.  _ I have a party!!! _

Let’s start from the beginning. I haven’t been able to write since leavin’ Bannockburn, obviously, and it’s been a hard couple of weeks sloggin’ over hills by myself. It’s rainin’ way too much to keep a fire goin’, which means I’ve been eatin’ lots of cold salt pork in a damp tent by the side of the road. It’s also been  _ lonely, _ Bee, and I kept gettin’ attacked by random encounters, and even though I can hold my own against goblins and bridge trolls, it gets exhaustin’ to waggle a sword around every time I run out of spell slots.

Comin’ here was all worth it, though. I will describe the party in full.   
  
The self-proclaimed leader and organizer of the crew, Ziren, is a human ranger who “specializes in tracking.” I hesitate to put down any inflammatory opinions in my writing in case this letter is discovered before I can send it, so I’ll summarize their attitude thusly: they are certainly not meek. Like most everyone else in the party, they are physically strong, but I’d call their muscles ropy and tight instead of, say, big and impressive like yours. Their hair is straight and shiny, and they’re shorter than me, but not by much. They wear lots of rings and bright pretty jewels.   
  
In terms of social relations, me and Ziren are the only humans in the party. They keep sizin’ me up as if they see me as a rival, but let the record show that I’m intendin’ to avoid conflict in all forms this time—Ziren can act how they wish; I won’t rise to it.

Now, we all agreed to address each other by one name only so we aren’t identifiable in case somethin’ goes wrong, but even if Ziren’s partner, England, had shared more than his surname, I confess I wouldn’t know anything about the man. He’s quiet in the  _ silent _ kind of way. Every time I look at him, I get the horrible feelin’ I’ve done somethin’ wrong. Maybe that’s just the way centaurs are?   
  
I didn’t know there were any centaurs left on the continent. I thought England was just sittin’ astride a horse when I first walked past his and Ziren’s cart. But as soon as I realized the horse’s head wasn’t there, I stopped in the middle of the road and stared with my jaw hangin’ open. I suppose he’d be handsome if he weren’t holdin’ himself on constant guard. His hair is lovely and long, like Ziren’s, but it has my texture and color, and the fur on his lower body is rust-red.

England and Ziren are not very affectionate with each other, so I’m actually unclear whether they’re romantically involved or if their partnership is strictly business. I probably shouldn’t speculate, right? This party ain’t gonna be nearly as close-knit as BODE was, so it’s important to stay professional!   
  
I’m not here to make friends.   
  
Which is unfortunate ’cause Osbourne, our wizard, is so approachable! I can’t help but like her! She’s a tiefling—maybe in her forties?—and she has a very deep voice. Despite the warm weather, she wears a lot of clothes, which made my heart jump at first, but I don’t think she’s like me. She looks very lumpy. Her skin is an intense shade of red, and she has a pair of big, curly horns comin’ out of her forehead.   
  
Osbourne has been callin’ everyone “my dear,” even Ziren. It seems so natural when it’s comin’ from her. I think it caught England off guard when it happened to him. He narrowed his eyes and just barrelled Osborne right down the center the whole time she was talkin’.   
  
The final member of the party is Noose, the halfling rogue. I don’t have much to say about her, frankly. She seems pretty quiet.   
  
Maybe she’s shy? I’ve known halflings who’ve told me it’s tricky bein’ the only small one around big-folk. Noose was also the last person to show up and join the party, too, so maybe she thinks we’re already a team. I hope she opens up a little. When I tried to talk to her earlier, she just shrugged and went back to sharpenin’ her knives. I suppose all halflings are short, but she’s small, even then. She wears her hair in two pigtails, long, with beads at the ends, and her eyebrows are thick and dark.

Hey, Bee? I admit that I’m a little worried about all of this.

Ziren wouldn’t even tell us what our mission was when we signed up. We’ve been given a little time to do personal stuff before we leave the port, so I have to assume we’ll get more information when we meet up again tonight. Maybe it was too complicated or too personal to talk about right away…? I know there are some things I wouldn’t want to ask of strangers.

My gut says that this is a big sketchy mess and I may regret gettin’ involved in the first place. I could grab my stuff and split if I wanted to, but seriously, where else am I supposed to find work? This is all I’ve got.

The clause sayin’ we’re only allowed to provide one name is also buggin’ me. I understand that it’s supposed to protect us, but from  _ what? _   


Kennick


	23. Kennick's Letters 3

Shelby:

_ I’m fine,  _ aside from missin’ you! I have never felt better, now that England has sewn up my arm and put a salve on the bruise on my butt! I am absolutely okay, so PLEASE keep that in mind as you continue readin’!

Let me pick up from where I left off in the last account.

I wrote and sealed my letter to you while sittin’ on a bench next to the ocean, which was, of course, outrageously romantic, but I’m afraid the spray was so thick that I accidentally smudged the address. Oh, Shelby, I wish there were a way for me to confirm whether or not my letters are reaching you! I also wish a sailor hadn’t watched me get into a fistfight with a seagull over an entire loaf of bread, but if wishes were horses…

When I checked my timepiece, it was about a quarter to dinnertime, so I hurried back into town to meet up with the rest of my new party.

(Ziren, to everyone, as I arrived) “What is it about bards insisting on being fashionably late? What inflated egos they all have! All right, now that we can  _ finally  _ start,  _ good afternoon,  _ ladies and gents. Sit if you wish.”

(Osbourne, looking around) “On what?”

It seems prudent to mention at this time that Ziren made us meet up in an alleyway behind a crumbling old inn. They impatiently pointed at an upturned bucket, and Osbourne smiled faintly and took a seat.

(Ziren) “Tonight, you will sleep in this inn. England, you will sleep in the stables. For the rest of you, I’ll pay for your rooms. We leave  _ early  _ tomorrow morning, so you’d better be awake and ready by sunrise.”

Silence.

(Osbourne) “I hesitate to say this, but you are acting positively militaristic, dear leader.”

(Noose) “You’re not even telling us where we’re going?”

I can’t even tell you how relieved I was to hear that the others were just as bothered as me, but Ziren only snorted and tossed their hair over their shoulder.

(Ziren) “You signed up, didn’t you? We’ll discuss what I want from you tomorrow, when we’re on the road.”

(Kennick) “Why not now?”

(Noose) “Yeah, you worried we’ll run off?”

(England, from the shadows, in a firm voice) “This matter is too delicate to discuss in broad daylight. You heard Ziren.”

And That Was That.

I wish our fearless (cheapskate) leader hadn’t insisted on payin’ for our inn rooms, since it meant that me, Noose, and Osbourne had to share a bedroom with just one bed while Ziren got a room all to themself. I mean, we were bein’ asked to share intimate living space when we hadn’t even shared a meal yet. Picture this, Bee: a halfling, a human, and a tiefling, all clustered together in the middle of a room, starin’ in conflicted horror at a single twin-size bed.

Osbourne was the first to start laughin’. Noose crossed her arms.

(Noose) “I can sleep under the bed. I’m used to it.”

Her voice sounds kinda rusty, like she ain’t used to speakin’ out loud very often.

(Osbourne) “Oh, dear, you can’t be serious! We won’t make you do that. Look, you and Kennick can both fit on the bed easily if she curls up her legs. I’m bigger than both of you, so I’ll sleep on the floor, of course.”

(Kennick) “That ain’t necessary! I can fall asleep anywhere as long as I’m warm enough. You two should take the bed.”

(Osbourne) “Kennick, Kennick, Kennick. Think about it! Though I’m flattered by your selfless generosity, I’m much too large for Noose to fit comfortably!”

(Noose) “And I don’t want to. It’s fine.”

(Osbourne) “But look, here, if we want to fit as many people on this mattress as possible—”

So Noose slept under the bed. I curled up on a blanket by the wall, and Osbourne slept on a bunch of pillows next to me, claiming that she needed to sleep on floorboards anyway for the sake of her bad back.

I didn’t actually see the look on Ziren’s face when they came to rouse us in the morning, since it was way too early and it took me about thirty seconds to wake up all the way, but they sure weren’t pleased when they saw our “compromise.”

(Ziren) “Let’s  _ go, _ ladies. And next time we stay at an inn, remember that it’s your responsibility to keep yourself sharp and well-rested!”

(Osbourne, from the floor) “It’s barely five in the morning, dear!”

(Ziren) “And I told you to wake up and get ready early! Now, move!”

Within twenty minutes, we were clustered at the front of the inn. It had begun to rain, which made all of us silently resent Ziren even more. England looked real uncomfortable. I asked if he’d slept okay, and he just grumped all over me.

About half a day’s travel later, we were accosted by a pack of wild ogres, hence my injuries.

I guess they smelled the tension in our group. We were all silent and unhappy, so we certainly weren’t makin’ any kind of noise to attract them. I’ll say this much: for our first fight as a team, it sure didn’t go well, so I’m not exactly optimistic about our future as an adventurin’ party. Noose had stolen a towel—and I mean a full size towel—from the inn, so she tripped over that while she was tryin’ to stab an ogre from behind. Osbourne screamed and fell all over herself and giggled like a little girl at a summer camp play.

And me? I suddenly realized three turns into the fight that as my specialty is piano, I sure wouldn’t be able to help much! I did try singin’, but my voice cracked right on a high note and my spell failed!

So an ogre smashed my arm with a spiked mace. Dug right in through the cloth and skin and muscle, all the way to the bone.

I’m fine, Bee!!! I swear! It sure hurt, though! It took off a few more hit points than I’m comfortable with, but England said he was more worried about infection and swellin’ than anything. I’ll be fine after a night’s rest. I’m actually currently writin’ this while ridin’ on England bareback—I must say, I didn’t expect a centaur to be okay with someone ridin’ em like a horse; you’d think they’d be offended at the very idea, right? But he said it’s what makes him such a good cleric, that he can cart around his patients and check in on how they’re doin’.

I’m not tired, but I think I’ve written a pretty good account of how I feel about this party, so I’ll wrap this letter up and rest. We’re currently on our way to cross the border into the Ruby Dunes, but I won’t say where, as I don’t want anyone to ambush us if this letter is intercepted.

Kennick


	24. Kennick's Letters 4

Shelby,

It is surreal to think that these people know nothing about my past.   
  
When I first returned to Shirey with you, I immediately started tellin’ everyone about Kajack and Morgan and Monroe and all of it. I shared every single detail that wasn’t too private to share. I did everything short of callin’ a press conference ’cause I couldn’t imagine bein’ a stranger in my own home, and besides, I wanted the town to spread the truth instead of wild rumors.   
  
Small towns make it so easy to be known, and you never really notice that until you leave! I’ve never known a fresher start. Even the one I got when I was sixteen felt raw and bleak. But this one feels a lot more hopeful.   
  
I can’t lie to myself and say I’m not intimidated by this crowd. I’m the youngest in my adventurin’ party for the first time ever, which is why I assumed, for a nasty flash, that Osbourne is treatin’ me with a maternal attitude ’cause she thinks I’m too young. I know now that she treats everyone exactly the same way, but for a second there, I really wanted to tell her that I had two mommas growin’ up and I don’t need a third.   
  
I may be young, but I’m neither naive nor a child, Bee. Not anymore.

That being said, I might like to count “unobservant” among my faults, because I didn’t find out until today that both Noose  _ and  _ Osbourne have prosthetic eyes. Noose in her left, Osbourne in her right. Osbourne’s, which is glass, was handmade for her by a close friend and is wonderfully detailed (her eyes are not a solid color like some tiefling’s, but a pale, swirling red enlaced with gold); Noose admitted that she commissioned her own with counterfeit queens. Shelby, tell me honestly, am I a drip for being jealous that the only other women I know have something so dramatically obscure in common? I don’t want to lose one of my eyes just for the sake of cliché sisterhood, but they’ve spent the better part of the night joined at the hip!  _ Swapping eyes,  _ even!

I like women. I grew up with two mothers and lots of younger siblings and can say with certainty that the ideal community is mostly women friends. I have really rarely gotten to be around other women; I miss them, and I am bitterly lonely here in this world of adventurin’ where the only two other women I know are paired off. An example of my exclusion begins thusly:

We have taken to traveling by horse-and-carriage, which meant that when the Keepers stopped all traffic outside Europa and went down the line, coach by coach, questioning each one about a recent robbery of the city library some days prior, there was really no way to innocently sneak off and avoid bringin’ suspicion. This was obviously nerve-wracking. Our fearless leader was not so shaken and agreeably produced all our adventurin’ contracts, which signify clearly that we were travelin’ in from out of town, and avowed that adventurers like us would have no use for the sort of esoteric tools you might find in a library. One Keeper tried to ask about England, who was walking beside our cart, and Osbourne, who had shrunk back into the seat and was clutching her robes about her; but Ziren brazenly snapped their fingers in that one’s face and told him to do his job. By his own description, the robber had been a halfling.

I looked over at Noose and was shocked to see that in the place of the little halfling woman I have come to know, there was instead a wizened old gnome with great bushy eyebrows and facial tattoos. This creature peered past me out the window, much the way an old grandfather would calmly regard some sensational animal at a drive-through safari, and the Keepers overlooked her and waved us on.

Of course I immediately begged her to tell me how a rogue comes across magic like that. Noose smirked, which is the first time and only time I’ve seen her smile, and explained to me that there was nothing arcane in her appearance at all. She had done nothing but apply stage makeup. I watched her peel her eyebrows off and scrub her face with a washcloth and a bowl of water and a little bottle of oil.

Noose had whipped up that disguise without a mirror in less than five minutes. It was gone in two more.

(Ziren) “Next time, kindly  _ tell me  _ when we are about to pass through a city you have robbed. I hired you because you said you could be discreet. Incidentally, mate, I’d expect any thief worth their salt to use that macabre skill to disguise themself  _ before  _ they rob a respected establishment.”

(Noose) “This face you’re looking at now could be its own disguise. I don’t trust any of you.”

She got this terrible little self-satisfied look. I saw a glint of a gold-leaf book appear in a flash under the heavy folds of her little coat, and I now realize that the only reason I saw it at all was because she wanted me to. Noose jerked her chin across the coach at Osbourne.

(Noose) “Except her.”

Hearin’ that made me feel a little sad.

At any rate, Ziren still hasn’t told us what our quest is, so I hardly feel like I’m travelin’ with the other girls, let alone workin’ with them. Maybe when we all have more of an idea of what we’re supposed to be doin’, I can feel out these women a bit more and maybe, assumin’ we’ve all let our guard down by then, win their affection.

I continue to reflect on the days when I had nothin’ profoundly upsettin’ burnin’ a hole in my past. It was so much easier to trust new people and consider them my friends when the only monster in my heart was a house fire and a death that was ultimately no one’s fault at all.

Kennick


	25. Kennick's Letters 5

Bee:

Officially in the Ruby Dunes; will write more when we’ve set up camp!

5:00 PM.

I am dictating this, so don’t expect me to drop into any personal anecdotes or opinions. Noose is taking this down for me.

Fittingly enough, it got much hotter as we crossed the border into the desert. I’m sweltering. We’re currently in Ishtara, which I feel like I can freely say because Ziren made it no secret that we were here. When we crossed through the town gates, they even announced themself as—

Noose has informed me that she is refusing to write down Ziren’s political status, as it would directly interfere with our purpose if I passed on that information, even to someone as trustworthy as you.

—they announced themself as a very important political figure, which has certainly sparked  _ my  _ interest, if not that of literally everyone else in the surrounding area. We are going to stay here for the next week or so as Ziren attends to their business, the details of which I will attempt to convey to you in my next letter open parenthetical which Noose won’t be censoring close parenthetical.

Please write me. The party is staying at the Hrunthen Royal Inn, and I feel confident that if you write with the same speed you maintain every day in your intellectual pursuits, you can get a letter here before we next pick up our travels.

Now, I’m sure you have some questions, namely: Kennick, why do you have to dictate? Did your arm develop a terrible infection after your encounter with the ogres after all? No, Shelby, I promise you I’m fine, at least in body. We had a diplomatic incident that resulted in myself and Osbourne getting thrown in the city jail. Ziren has informed us that they’re working on bail money now, so there’s nothing to do but wait, but Noose did surprise me by coming by and volunteering to take down a letter.

I am not going to summarize the criminal circumstances leading to my jail time. One day, I’m sure you will get the story out of me and judge me fairly.

I have seen nothing of the desert beyond this jail. Now, Shelby, calm down; it’s just a holding cell, not a prison. Osbourne says she’s been in far worse jails, and I’m inclined to believe her, as even behind these bars we’ve had access to many delightful dates and cheeses and even a small water closet. We did see one of the Q’Ravi when we first arrived! We may have seen more than one, though I find it difficult to distinguish them from ordinary folk and tourists like us. This one was a little more eye-catching than the rest. They had an immense silvery-black cloak that dragged on the ground and looked just like the feathers of a great crow, and three or four real ravens were perched on their shoulders and head. They stared at us as we walked past, which I know because even though their face was obscured by what appeared to be a real, huge, sun-bleached bird skull, I could see their eyes, and they were a great flaming white.

Thinking of the Q’Ravi draws my mind to our old friend Monroe. I don’t know if you recall, but they got a bit obsessed with the idea of the Q’Ravi while we were stuck in Esbeth. I wonder if they ever made it here. I’d ask around if they’ve been seen, but I think I’ve committed enough cultural missteps for today.

Osbourne sends kisses.

Kennick


	26. Kennick's Letters 6

BEE!!!

I RECEIVED YOUR LETTER AND CAN FINALLY WRITE BACK IN MY OWN HAND!!! I was desolate from not hearin’ from you and then just as we were leavin’ town a messenger girl came joggin’ up all outta breath with an envelope thicker’n my wrist!!! I’ve been devourin’ your words all evenin’ and have finally calmed down enough to put pen to paper now that we’ve stopped for camp.

First, THANK YOU FOR THE PICTURES; I am overcome with delight to see your face again, though I must say these particular photos raise more questions than they answer. I notice that you have attached no explanation whatsoever to the picture wherein you are shaking hands with the mayor, nor the one where you’re holding up the prize tomatofest ribbon, especially as I have never seen you garden once in your life. Gods damn it, Shelby, how you vex me—and I can’t even beg you to write back and explain yourself, now that we’re on the road again.

Second, congratulations are in order; I’m burstin’ with pride to hear the news about you and that lovely schoolteacher! I sensed you perhaps felt awkward writin’ to me about it, so let me assuage your fears: you are my friend, Bee, and that predominates you bein’ my ex. I am happy for you.

Third, on your poetry. I wailed, I confess it. I cried, laughed, shook with such emotion that it all came streamin’ out my nose! I stomped up and down, ran around, even shoved the poems into all my friends’ faces until they let me read  _ Figure in Ice  _ and  _ Springfall  _ to them. I hope that’s all right—I realize I never asked permission to show off your works in progress. I suppose I haven’t had the chance to tell you about all the bondin’ I’ve been doin’, but, if you’ll indulge me in a few updated descriptions, I have decided since our earlier communication that I trust (most of) these people with my life.

Osbourne: A delightful woman. Completely helpless at combat—we later learned she dropped out of wizard college—but truly remarkable in the field of humor. She confessed to me in confidence that she has been shy and hard to the world for the past sixteen years, but she looked upon this venture as a fresh start, and in playing the part of the doting aunt she soon found that her jovial mask was more natural to her than it seemed. It pains my sense of modesty to write this, but she attributes much of her subtle inner transformation to me and my “freshness.”

Noose: It all started when we got bailed out and I, not havin’ a room of my own at the inn, chose to stay with Noose. Layin’ side by side on twin beds in pitch darkness, dry and cold, I asked her why exactly she came to visit me and take down your letter.

(Noose, quietly, in the dark) “I always see you writing to someone. I thought that your person… shouldn’t have to worry about you, and I thought that  _ you  _ shouldn’t be denied the right to tell your story to whoever it is you’re always writing. People like us, we have… histories.”

(Kennick) “You’re givin’ me the impression you got some personal experience in these matters. Might there be someone to whom you’ve been denied the right to tell your own story?”

Noose was silent.

(Kennick, after a few minutes) “Aw, Noose, who’m I gonna tell? You know I don’t trust Ziren as far as I can throw—”

(Noose) “Kennick…”

(Kennick) “Sorry.”

(Noose) “I don’t want to talk about my past. Sure. I had friends. Enemies. Sugar daddies. I even had people I liked when I was your age.”

This surprised me. I had not interpreted Noose to be much older than me by sight. I later learned that she is in her forties.

(Noose) “But now we have the job. I like that better.”

I’m pleased she trusted me enough to allude to her old life. I won’t pry, but I sure am curious!

England: I saw hints of this before, but I could never have guessed the depths to which this man cares. He is a father through and through. He doesn’t look it, but he, too, is apparently quite old; he was Ziren’s nursemaid when they were just a baby. I ain’t sure if we’ll ever be close, but he’s a wonderfully compassionate man!

Ziren: Well, I’m sure you got a hint from my conversation with Noose above. My dislike for our fearless leader has only grown over the past few days. I suppose I could have almost liked them before, but now I’ve learned what they really are and I confess I find them insufferable. My teeth hurt from grindin’. But my time is precious, as is the space remaining in this letter, and I’d rather not waste either gettin’ into it.

I’m afraid Noose ratted on me earlier, and I’m officially no longer allowed to tell you  _ too  _ much about our mission, which is a cold hard shame, as it’s so desperately interesting! You’d never guess that Ziren is secretly a Lumen spy (!!!) and that our task is to bring down a high-society informant to the Keepers. I’d do terribly wrong if I let  _ that  _ information slip into civilian hands.

There, that’s all right, ain’t it? I haven’t told you Ziren’s surname, nor the fact that in addition to bein’ a spy they’re (almost!) a prince from the east. I have also avoided accidentally writin’ down the name of our target. Jokes aside, I definitely won’t tell you that one, Bee. Not until the job is done.

Ziren was broke when we got into Ishtara, and bail money wouldn’t be wired to them for a few days, so Osbourne and I spent three days in jail waitin’. It was dreadfully boring, especially as we knew the other three were off havin’ fun and creatin’ intrigue somewhere. I was additionally pained to have finally found out what we were doin’ here but havin’ no outlet to express my excitement, so me and Osbourne discussed the recent revelations till we were sick to death of them: that Ziren is, unknown to all of us but England, the younger sibling of a Gíh prince, and—far more importantly to you and me—a secret spy-turned-assassin tasked with the mission of assemblin’ a team of revolutionaries.

That’s us!

Ziren had brought us to Ishtara for three purposes: to have money wired to them from their royal family in hidin’, to test our reactions when brought face-to-face with the exact kind of people the Keepers despise, and to pick up a person of interest.

Here’s the tough part. Ziren would be a prince in full were their brother not the oldest and therefore first in line to the crown. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand much of the politics involved, but from what I do grasp, the Gíhereth Empire is a little bit ancient and certainly not very well known. It was once established in the Ruby Dunes before its fall and its people’s subsequent exodus. A handful of them live there still. In some circles, it is believed that the Gíh king will rise again.

Ziren would be that king were it not for their brother, who is, again, the rightful heir.

Ooh, I am  _ beyond  _ tense, Shelby, at the fact that we once again have sibling drama waitin’ for us in the wings, but Ziren is at least outspoken about the fact that 1) they hate their brother and 2) they plan to kill him so they can ascend to power as soon as possible. That’s refreshing.

All of this is so far beyond my expectations that I’m still tremblin’ with whiplash. I’ve gotten caught up in a political plot of world-changin’ proportions against our ruling government! And I haven’t even mentioned the most excitin’ part!!!

The Q’Ravi I mentioned in my previous letter is the person of interest we came here to pick up. I have been told that their name is Captain Azena—a pirate, not just a plain sailor—though they have not spoken a word since we met. Their role in our group is to provide us a boat. Because, get this, Bee: we  _ will  _ be going out on the ocean. I  _ will  _ be going on a pirate adventure. I  _ will  _ have to get over my seasickness.

I am fixin’ to make a legend for myself! You just wait!

Kennick


	27. Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a description of drowning in this chapter.

Telisse walked into the lobby just in time to see a thin half-elven fop bouncing on his heels at the front desk. He was sodden to the core, wearing nothing but a stained sweater and a muddy commoner’s outfit, and his dark hair was plastered to his skull like a helmet, but despite his appearance he retained an air of absolute confidence. Unfortunately, it was Opretta at the front desk. “I said no,” she said crisply, which for Opretta was as threatening as a bark. “Good  _ evening,  _ milord.”

The man saluted once and skipped backward toward the door. “Point taken!” His voice was high, silvery, and cooing, like a bird’s. “Sorry for bothering you, ma’am! And good night!”

“Wait—”

“Change of heart?” He came prancing back and cupped his thin brown hands against the rounded edge of the front desk, the way a mountain-climber might grip the edge of a cliff. The young man’s eyes were eternally laughing. He could’ve been a boy or a girl, but half-elves were like that, and anyway the thin scraggly mustache over his lip suggested male to Telisse.

“No, milord, if that you be,” said Opretta sharply. “I’m warning you not to try that again. Another place might call the local guard on you for that.” She sniffed. “I hardly recommend you wander the streets in this weather, so if you’re looking for a place to stay, you might try the Paradise Rose.” A muscle twitched next to her nose. “They take… all kinds.”

He wilted.

“Well, I guess you can say you’ve seen me if he comes asking,” he muttered, turning away. “Ah, wait.” He dug in his pockets and clinked a handful of queens on the counter. “For your trouble.” He winked at her.

Opretta stared. Her eyebrows were hanging so low on her forehead they were almost tangled in her eyelashes. “I’m  _ married,”  _ she scolded him.

The man sighed. “Yeah,” he said apologetically. He looked like he was going to say something else for a moment, but then he just shrugged his shoulders in a graceful, rolling circle, stuck his hands in his pockets, and padded out past the doorman into the sheeting rain.

Telisse slunk up to Opretta and tapped her on the shoulder. “What’d he want?”

“What you think he wanted? A room. I  _ think.”  _ Opretta swept the small pile of coins into her sleeve. “Told me his pa’s Lord Anaris and he wanted us to charge the Anaris estate the cost of a triple suite to, quote, ‘make him look in the wrong part of the city.’ Well, you know me, I’m not paid to ask questions, but I need proof of identity, sir. How’s the group of five?”   


Telisse whistled low under her breath. “My niece will never, ever believe me when I tell her we got a real-life centaur in the stables. Gods, Opretta, don’t they know it’s suicide? A tiefling, a halfling—well, I guess a halfling could get by. But for gods’ sakes, a tiefling! In Bellichi! They’ll be murdered in their beds! Or would be, if this weren’t the Bellagoria Deluxe Spa & Resort™.”

“Mm, yes, but it’s a matter of percentage, no? In the majority they pass. There’s always that one odd halfling,” Opretta agreed. “Like that Lady from what’s-it-called… pah. Oh, did you hear? Ollie got accosted by a centaur earlier  _ today. _ The Keepers were notified at once, of course, and Anaris’s private guard has been prowling, but do you think it was the same one?”

Telisse’s mouth hung open. “Must be,” she gasped. “Can we refuse it lodging if it’s staying in the stables? Oh, dear, we can’t have that in the papers, can we? The Bellagoria, harboring a wanted criminal!”

“Well, we just won’t say a word, girl.” Opretta tapped her fingernail against her sleeve. “Play dumb and you can’t lose!”

There was no moon out that night, and not just because of the swarming stormclouds. Lulara had refused to turn their face toward Bellichi. Kajack slogged through the golden puddles of lamplight and mourned the crumbling rations he’d be having if only he were with the Delta squad, or the sandwich he’d be getting from the cafeteria at the headquarters, or even, yes, the fancy dinners at the Anaris estate. Any normal seaside town would at least have an abandoned net of fish he could steal from, or a hay-cart he could sleep in, but here there were no gaps to fall through. Bellichi was too  _ clean. _

“Marlon, baby, what I’d give for shoulders like yours,” he said under his breath. “Like a walking umbrella.”

He ducked under a flickering orange lamppost to get his bearings and, instantly paranoid about being in the light, slithered away to press his back up against a nearby building. He squinted up the brick wall. There was light jazz music and polite laughter muffled against the nearest freezing glass window, suffocated by the patter of the rain.

Kajack slumped to the grass.

He had not been so cataclysmically alone since the night of Morgan’s death.

When he had nightmares he sought out friends. Wasn’t this nightmare enough? He pressed his tongue, hot and dry, against the Sage symbol on the back of his hand, and when this did not ignite its glow and reveal to him his squad, he buried himself in his arms and let the tired tears rise again. Kennick White had been in Bellichi for a day, but Kajack had no way of knowing this.

“Jeez,” he whispered, just to hear a voice. “Talk about weather representing a bad mood… or maybe I  _ wouldn’t  _ feel this bad if the night were clear.”

True. Escaping Anaris had seemed so simple in the courtyard, but Bellichi was forbidding. To Kajack’s credit, he had attempted to grand-theft-auto a sailboat earlier, but handling sails in the dark was difficult enough when it wasn’t pouring with rain.

What he wouldn’t give for Morgan, who could always figure  _ something  _ out—!

The pleasant jazz leaking through the window was easier to block out when he gave his ears to the tempo of the rain. Just one song. He would be quiet. It would bolster him and he would try again.

_ Don’t know the meaning behind the song _

_ But you keep singing anyway _

_ Do you even know you’re the problem? _

_ Or is that just not your forte? _

“Sons of a Runaway” was a bright, poppy, angry sort of song that Morgan had written years and years ago. Kajack had liked the tune and had been sure to gush over it.

_ I guess forgiveness is a long lost tune _

_ Cause I’m sick of not getting through to you _

_ I guess I got too little too soon _

_ I don’t know how else to say I’m sick of you _

_ I guess I don’t need you anyway _

_ With your limelight and neon glow _

_ We’re less brothers than sons of a runaway _

_ I think one of us is gonna have to go _

_ One of us is gonna have to go  _

It was a good thing, Kajack reflected, that there was no audience. His voice was creaking and sobbing and every few seconds he involuntarily broke and gasped for breath. He was crying so hot on his face he felt he would open his eyes to steam clouds.

Stupid, he thought. Stupid to think I could get away from it. Stupid to think I’m crying about my dad and being in the rain and the dark and being hungry when it’s not that. I got out and I’m going to slog home to the Lumen and I’ll be okay, just like I always have. I’m happy. I escaped! This is the old pain again.

Wasn’t I good enough? he thought. Didn’t I get us enough money?

_ Is this the thanks I get  _

_ For playing the martyr? _

_ Is this the song and dance we do _

_ Where I play mother and father?  _

_ You’re a hard act to follow _

_ But I don’t think I’ll bother  _

_ Why do you get to sit around and wallow  _

_ While I’m the— _

Kajack sat bolt upright as if struck by lightning and screamed like he was was being killed. The muffled party sounds abruptly went silent.

“Is  _ that  _ what the song was about?” Kajack shrilled.

The rain stopped falling. No, it was still pouring. But it had stopped landing on him. One minute he was enduring the endless freezing beat of water on his drenched scalp, and the next it was pounding everywhere but Kajack.

Slowly, wrecked, lost again in the monstrous image of Morgan’s paling body, Kajack sang though the bridge. And then he was sure.

_ Sometimes I look at you and just can’t stand it _

_ Some days I’m grateful for this life we’ve managed _

_ Why do you always get the praise when you act so fucking damaged? _

_ I want a taste of what you’ve got and I’m fucking famished! _

“I am tone-deaf,” he said to himself in disgust. “He told me! He said it right there! He wrote it all out and I didn’t  _ listen!” _

He fell to the flooded grass and curled into the shape of a question mark. Still, the raindrops hovered above him, breathless, waiting.

“He hated me,” Kajack sobbed. “He tried to kill me! He hates me!”

“Who hates you?”

Electrified, Kajack sprang up onto his knees. “Who’s there!” he shrieked.

“Who tried to kill you?”

He could not identify the source of the voice. He looked all around the black and grey and icy world. He was alone!

“Who tried to kill you?” the voice asked again.

“Morgan?” Kajack begged.

“Who?”

Kajack beat his fists against the ground. “My brother! Where are you?”

The swirling winds did not pierce him. The rain fell everywhere but on his broken back. The voice, deep and unfamiliar, seemed to come from all directions, and Kajack yelled out an exhausted sob into the soil, defeated.

“Who are you?” said the voice severely.

Kajack looked up.

Up.

Up at the little glass window that had been unfastened and tilted outward on its chains like a trapdoor as the curious rich people at the fancy party peered down at the sobbing man on their lawn.

Kajack stared. The rain had stopped falling on his head because he was kneeling square underneath the propped-out glass pane. A tipsy bearded man with a pair of opera glasses was leaning out, peering down at him fretfully.

“Oh, whatever!” Kajack howled, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair—brown, like Morgan’s!—in his hands. “Whatever! It’s all over now! He’s gone!”

He clawed out from under the throng of voyeurs and tore away down the road. Sprinting blindly, vision streaked with tears and water, lungs wet, the freezing rain slapped into Kajack again so mercilessly, so shockingly cold, that he let out a streaming cry of physical pain. The torrent was so thick he could hardly breathe. Suddenly the sky rattled with thunder so loud Kajack felt like he was falling amongst a cabinetful of pots and pans. The horizon snapped with pillars of white. He put his hands over his face.

_ His fault! _

His fault! Kajack burned with shame. A great rushing fog of memory swept up under him. To go to Morgan, only one year older and equally vulnerable, with every mild hurt that bit his heart, and all the while singing and dancing and clowning about and consuming every drop of spotlight and feeding the guilt in Morgan, who could never give enough, never be enough! Forget the shadows that lurked behind the voice and face of BODE! His brother was too patient. Kajack had eroded his limits until Morgan had been gambling with his very soul.

But that wasn’t enough, was it? Was it? To want someone dead? To be pushed into shadow, never thanked, never seen, always used, always taken for granted? Always the older brother?

Lost without the necessary language or framework to understand the serpentine ecosystem of service, Kajack felt as if, digging a tunnel through the earth, he had broken into someone else’s grave.

The concrete disappeared beneath his soaked boots. Or were his feet too numb to feel it?

No. Like the lightning, the first bolt of human terror snapped through the fog. Kajack was falling!

He crashed into the bay with a spray of seawater and sank like a stone.

He vomited. He’d never known fear alone could make him  _ do  _ that, but there he was, spitting up empty stomach acid like a baby. He thrashed for anything solid. A pillar! A support beam! But the choppy waves were tugging him away from the mainland!

Swim, swim, he told himself. He didn’t know how. He thrashed at the water and scissored his legs like he’d been told.

He was sinking!

Without the moon, there was no light to guide Kajack up through the mist. He lost his grip on up and down and could not have told which direction he was being buffeted. He held his breath tight, even as his lungs strained and the space behind his forehead began to itch, and kept pushing his arms weakly through the black, but he was rapidly discovering that whatever he kept doing with his limbs was only ensnaring him tighter in the watery web.

He felt his heart going babum-babum-babum-babum-babum loud and frightened.

His lungs broke and rushed with water. It was the most intolerably discomfiting sensation. He wanted nothing more in the world than to cough!

Kajack kicked weakly, once. Babum-babum-babu—

Silence. It hung there.

Worse than the drowning itself was the hideous awareness that he had to be mentally present for it. There was no stage to bow off of, no curtains to fall, no audience to gasp and pat their foreheads clean of sweat and lean forward glassily in their seats, no poetic death anywhere; only Kajack, peeled and alone. Not a friendly hand to hold or a face to look into. The world was ending. He could think of nothing except that he would never again see light nor color—never walk a step—never breathe a lungful of fresh cold empty air—the back of his hand tingled and illuminated the ghostly green of a coral reef—

A hand seized him by the hair. He dimly sensed water rushing around him as he zoomed upward. The world was pulsing grey, and his head was splitting, and his heart was stopped, and he could not summon the reality that he was being saved.

Everything went blank.

He waited.

A pulse slammed into his body.

His lungs moved—

Then another pulse and another and another and another and another! Bewildered as he was, Kajack’s lungs were expanding rapidly with something very much like air! His heart was racing, pounding! Something was squeezing him tight!

He was thumping to a rhythm now—the brilliant, magical, unforgettable song of a beating heart!—but how? He’d forgotten how! Wasn’t he done? Wasn’t it all over? Then air again, rushing in, bubbling and displacing the water and billowing out the soft tissue of his lungs until he thought he would burst like a balloon—!

“Kajack!”

“Kajack, breathe!”

“Kajack,  _ I order you to breathe—” _

He choked and coughed against the mouth that was pressed to his. It drew away hastily. Nauseous, clogging seawater poured out of Kajack’s mouth and nose as he fought to inhale. But even as he desperately struggled to suck air into his sloshing lungs—every breath a choked cough—he blearily saw it: the petrified pale face of General Hugo Kretz, inches from his own, and past it, a worried film of light blue. Terrified yellow eyes. A smear of damp colors, wet and muddy as a child’s watercolor, but a million times more sublime than any framed masterpiece Kajack had ever seen.

“Yes,” said Luma, hushed. They were squeezing his hand so tight it hurt. “You  _ stupid  _ little man. I could kill you.”

“Kajack, please,” Marlon whispered, cupping Kajack’s other hand in his. “Please be okay—I need you to be okay!”

Smolls muscled in and started doctoring. Luma slapped Kajack hard on the back. “You should have attended Lumen swimming classes,” they said, harshly, as he coughed and spat. “I was worried about you.”

“They were!” said Bart, fervent. “We all were, but Luma was the one pacing around like a madman. They wouldn’t sleep or eat.”

“Enough,” said Kretz. “Kajack—”

“What happened to your  _ hair?”  _ said Larkren roughly.

_ “Enough!  _ Kajack. Are you all right?”

Kajack moaned wordlessly. He squirmed away from Smolls, put his arms around Marlon’s neck, and buried his face in his boyfriend’s throat. He gasped over and over, loving the air in his lungs and the hot dry skin against his face. “You came for me!” he said, when he was able to speak again. “You saved me.” He took Marlon’s face in his hands and kissed him on the lips. “I love you,” he said. “I love you,” he said again, meaning all of them.

“We brought reinforcements,” said Larkren. He jabbed a scaly thumb at the porthole behind him. Kajack turned away from Marlon’s round eyes long enough to retch up another mouthful of seawater, then squinted around, shivering.

They had dragged his limp body into the common quarters of a rocking houseboat. The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in stained parchment maps and framed photos and drawings. He rocked. The colors were too glaring. Behind Kajack was a ship kitchen, warm and orange, blistering with the heat of a brilliant tiny furnace.

Kajack groped around beyond Marlon for Luma’s hand and held it tight.

“I couldn’t tell you how,” said Kretz. He seized and gripped Kajack’s shoulder. “We were sailing into port when suddenly the whole Delta squad was hitting me and shouting and saying you were in the water, though I don’t know how on earth they knew.”

“It was the Sage symbols,” said Luma archly, lifting an eyebrow. “They lit up and, ah, gave us the impression that a friend was in grave danger.” The admission meant more coming from Luma, who had been researching, with little success, how to bow out of being a Sage for weeks.

“I thought you guys weren’t coming for me!”

At this they all clamored to explain what the earlier Sending had not had words to spare for. Shortly after the Delta squad had left on their mission, Commander Gwen had received word that a Lumen spy had ceased to follow orders and was taking unauthorized initiative to assassinate an influential member of high-society Mestrus. To kill their target here, now, would sacrifice a valuable source of information and throw an already fragile political arrangement into unmanageable chaos. It would be the chess equivalent of tipping the board over. It could not be borne.

“The spy’s target is a woman named Duchess Castra Ati,” said Bart helpfully.

No  _ way.  _ It was in this exhausted waterlogged moment that Kajack dully discovered he no longer knew how to feel about the Duchess. She was in with the Keepers, he remembered that, and he had disliked her. But she had also mutilated Anaris. Enemy of my enemy? He murmured something vague to this effect, and Luma brought him a mug of hot apple cider.

Gwen had dispatched the Delta squad to secure the spy. Her figurative two birds were both in Bellichi, and the Delta squad would be her stone. But because the rogue spy was more unpredictable and dangerous than Lord Anaris, whose motives, at least, were clear, and Kajack hadn’t sent word that he was being tortured or harmed, the former affair took precedence. Kajack was not on the Lumen’s back burner. He never had been.

“The Homerunner squad came, too,” said Bart, jerking his chin in the direction of the porthole window. It was fogged over, and, beyond the periodic flashes of lightning, Kajack couldn’t make out anything in the mist. “We got split up. Toulouse and Parisa took Parisa’s broom, but Viridios had to find another way across the cove—”

“He’s swimming across,” said Larkren, then rolled his eyes and shook his head. It was a joke.

“I was  _ not  _ going to leave you in the hands of that evil man, Kajack,” said Kretz.

“Ow. That hurts.”

Kretz let go.

“We should let him rest,” said Luma, rising. “Anything I can get you, Kajack? A blanket? Your face is practically grey.”

“A good meal,” said Kretz immediately. “Bart, you’re closest—can you go up and see what we could put together—” Bart jumped up at once. There was a small commotion in the kitchen as half the Delta squad went through the various cabinets and cupboards and hooted over the abandoned spices left behind by the previous owner of the houseboat, which, Kajack gathered from context, they had stolen wholesale.

“I’m going to make chicken broth,” Smolls announced. With the care of a heavy, one-legged bugbear who had fallen more than once on this voyage thanks to the choppy waters, he creaked across the floor. “Get some rest, Kajack. We’ll take care of you.”

Kajack’s eyes filled with tears. “Luma, your bracelet… you should know, I lost it…”

Luma’s hand came down immediately and rested on the crown of his head. He could not guess what they were thinking. It was all right. He felt relief. He submitted to exhaustion and leaned into their hand, which had begun to lightly open and close against his scalp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Winter for naming Telisse and Opretta!  
> \- Winter for writing "Sons of a Runaway"!


	28. The Houseboat

Maybe it was the influence of prophecy, but even the sunrise after that felt like the sort of inhale one takes after a great battle has been fought, or a fire has been extinguished, or water has been cleared from the lungs.

It wasn’t raining anymore. The whole world felt like a slowly drying diorama, complete at last, young, beautiful, set up on the shelf to be admired. Kajack’s outfit was still drip-drying out on the deck. He rolled out of Marlon’s bunk and, mindfully aware of the textures and colors, pulled on a pair of oversized pants he found in a dusty leather trunk under the bed. They made him look like a circus clown. He had to cuff them three times.

He yawned and tossed a shawl around his bare shoulders and went to find Marlon. The houseboat was not large. Not counting the narrow deck, it was just a couple of cramped rooms they’d shared out between them and then the kitchen space and common room. He emerged into the latter.

“We plotting in here?” he chirped.

Without looking up, Luma waved from the disgustingly orange leather armchair in the corner. They were studying a gigantic ink-and-parchment map. It looked like blueprints. “Good morning, Kajack.”

“This houseboat owns,” he enthused, coming over. “Did you guys know there’s a working shower on the back deck and everything? Marlon said it pulls water straight from the ocean and magics out all the salt and fish pee and stuff. Is that true?”

Luma’s eyebrows shot up. “Good to know you and Marlon have… reconnected.” Marlon, who Kajack only belatedly realized was laying on his back on the rug, twitched. Straight-faced, Luma bent to scribble a note on the map.

“Good morning, Kajack,” said Marlon, looking hunted.

Kajack twitched. “Hi.”

They considered each other.

“Oh, we do not need to know,” muttered Larkren. “For your information, Kajack, yes, it does filter out the salt, but not the fish pee.”

They were all in that little cabin. Kretz, too, whom Kajack examined, nearly bursting with a kind of love he felt too strange about feeling in the first place to admit. Those tired eyes! That unkempt, sagging face! Not one among them smelled of roses. He breathed in. Yes, the familiar soothing perfume of wet fur and blood and mud and shit and drying linen. His family.

Kajack breathed out. “I’ll do it!” he said.

“What?”   


A week ago he would have made the whole thing harder on everyone. “This spy’s going after the Duchess Ati, right? And someone’s gotta get close to her so we can stop her from getting killed,  _ right? _ And I’m the only one who doesn’t need a cover story to be at the estate. So I’ll do it. My father won’t believe me if I go back on my own terms and say I’ve had a change of heart, but all I gotta do is get myself captured again, and then I’m there.”

“Wait, Kajack,” said Smolls, puzzled. “Why does your father have anything to do with this? The Duchess Ati is the target, not Lord Anaris.”

“Right, but—” Kajack hastily explained what his father had told him. The Duchess and her daughter would be honored guests at the Anaris estate for the next month. On a sheet of notebook paper, he doodled a diagram of the layout of the house and circled the area he thought the guest rooms were.

“Oh, shit,” said Kretz, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That changes things, sure. Um… okay. All our info and blueprints are for the Ati place.” He looked around the cabin until his eyes lit on Kajack, who’d already wandered into the kitchen and was pawing through the icebox. “Maybe they haven’t moved in yet?”

Kajack shrugged. He seized three red apples from the dangling basket and began to juggle them. “I mean, I don’t know. I was barely even in the estate yesterday. I was shopping for most of the day, so I didn’t—” He dropped two of the apples.

“You were shopping,” said Luma flatly. They unwound their long limbs and leaned forward in their squashy armchair, interlacing their fingers. Kajack, unintimidated, took a bite out of the apple he was holding. “We’ve been worried sick about you, Kajack, and you were shopping?”

“Oh, my  _ gosh,”  _ Kajack snickered, mouth full. He danced around and hopped up onto the edge of the cramped kitchen counter. “Just groceries, Luma! It was an excuse to look around the city! What’d you want me to do, sulk around in my tower not getting any sunlight? Jeez. If I could’ve escaped I would’ve. But I wasn’t going to leave my stuff behind.” He narrowed his eyes at Kretz. “And speaking of, if I really am going back in there and acting as our inside man, I’m gonna need you guys to hold onto my stuff. My sweater.” Not the least because it needed another good wash after his dunk in the ocean, he thought.

He explained a little bit about Oliver and Luba and Zhara. When he got to the part with the mushroom shop, Kretz raised a hand. “Sorry, can you tell us anything else about the estate? Entrances, secret passageways, any unguarded door we could use to get in.”

Oh! He remembered. “We also got mugged a little bit,” said Kajack apologetically, twirling a lock of his hair around his finger. The apples he’d fumbled were rolling around on the floor, bound to the mercy of the dips and twists of the sea below. “A centaur and someone else I couldn’t see grabbed us in the alley and asked us that exact question—secret passageways. No, I got nothing. You all saw the entrance when you tried to rescue me earlier.” He directed this warmly toward the Delta squad. “So. That means you practically know as much as I do.”

Kretz scribbled lines in his notebook. “I think it’s safe to assume it was our spy who attacked you. That means they’re ahead of us by at least a day… Thanks, Kajack.” Kajack glowed.

“Bet,” he said. He tilted forward curiously. “What’s the spy’s name, anyway?”

“Ziren Zen,” said Luma. They paced across the chamber and leaned against one of the warm, creaky bookshelves. “Trustworthy, up until they began to act erratic and vanished from their post a couple of weeks ago. Assigned to keep an eye on Ms. Castra Ati, but  _ not  _ to act beyond intercepting her confidential communication with the Fuhrer. Hired…?”

They raised an eyebrow at Kretz.

“Oh, years ago,” said Kretz, shutting his notebook and stowing it in his pocket. In the light from the porthole, he looked like a grizzled old sea captain, beard and fiery eyes and all. On the other hand, the foggy grey sweater he had on gave him the impression of a coffee-and-classics influencer. “I can’t tell you much about the Lumen spies, unfortunately. A lot of them got hired on while I was… well, I guess I’d have been a spy, then, too.” Kajack realized with a jolt that Kretz was alluding to his history undercover as a Keeper. He’d played the role so well that even the Delta squad hadn’t known the truth until he was uncovered as a rebel traitor and nearly executed. “I never met Ziren myself.”

“We also know they’re not alone!” Marlon put in from the floor. He stretched his arms out over his head. The hem of his shirt rode up over his pale tummy, exposing a shadow of a trail of hair. Kajack fought the urge to run over and give him a raspberry.

“Right. There’s also a team of mercenaries, who we think are supposed to defend the spy from—well, us.” Kretz sighed. He massaged his temples. “Honestly, if Duchess Ati weren’t such an easy mark, I might just be willing to let this happen. But she gossips, so we need her. Besides, we can’t have an out-of-control spy running around ignoring orders.”

Kajack perked up. “Do we have to  _ kill  _ them?”

“Nope. Just capture and bring ’em back so Gwen and I can deal with them.”

“Are  _ you  _ going to kill them?”

Kretz made a face. “Let’s… table this discussion for now. We’ve got to get back in contact with the Homerunner squad. Bart? Can you do that thing with your bird again?”

Bart nodded and got up from the weathered old suitcase on which he had been sitting. His raven familiar hopped from his shoulder onto his outstretched claw. The two of them, remarkably well paired in color and posture, went out through the houseboat door; curious, Kajack wrapped his shawl tighter around his shoulders and followed them.

When looking through his familiar’s eyes and ears, Bart could not see or hear through his own. This condition would last only as long as his bird stayed within a hundred feet. The search would be brief. Kajack leaned against the guardrail, shivering, shirtless, and evaluated his friend’s blank eyes. Bart’s raven was flapping hard to gain altitude over the water.

Generally he liked Bart. Men like that appealed to him. On the other hand, realistically, he knew very little about Bart where he might have known more about, say, Toulouse, or Viridios, and so he could not guess at what Bart was thinking then and thanked the fact that there was no onus on him to make conversation.

Kajack blinked and looked round.

“Hey, kiddo.” General Kretz quietly clicked the door shut behind him. He scanned the water, which was just gorgeous, Kajack thought, now that it was dancing innocently with daylight and turning up only driftwood and seaweed and the howls of distant gulls. “If we’re really going through with this plan, we can always send someone else in there disguised as you. Bart, maybe.” He gestured to Bart, who was still hanging in that senseless wizardly limbo. “He’s got Disguise Self.”

Kajack snorted. “You don’t know my dad, he’d see right through that. Nah, um, I gotta go back. It’s not over yet. I mean, like, it hasn’t…  _ settled.” _

Kretz said nothing.

“We can’t just stake out the estate, either,” Kajack added. He pressed the ball of his bare foot into the spiny wooden deck. “All their weapons are still locked up inside somewhere.”

“Of course,” said Kretz, looking surprised.

Kajack let out a little groan and bounced up and down fretfully. “Sir?” he said. “You’ll always be my dad, you know that? I don’t mean it in a jokey way. My home is at the Lumen. But I’ve been confused.”

Kretz made a little sound in the back of his throat, urging Kajack to continue, but when Kajack looked over at him, he was just watching the waves.

“I do hate him,” said Kajack. “But every so often—no, a lot of the time now—I mean, he’s sharp and cruel with me, but sometimes it feels like he really cares about me. No, not—ugh.” Irritated, he scrubbed the hollow of his eye socket with the heel of his hand. “I just wish I could throw out the whole past few days! I’d prefer it if he kept me locked up and fed me crusts. But he listens to me, and he argues with me like I’m on his level, and I frustrate him. Like, I affect him. I’m real. I’m there. I’m in his life. And he really seems to care what I think of him, and that makes it so much worse.”

“Kajack, do you remember that time you told me about when you were just a kid, and you and your brother went to him for help, and he was very cruel to you? Hmm? If he loved you, he wouldn’t talk to you that way.”

Kajack felt better. “Yeah. Okay, sure. He’s still like that. There are so many bad sides to him, and he knows it, I think, and he doesn’t care at all. He’s mean and selfish.”

He put his hands in his deep corduroy pockets and scraped his big toenail along the wood of the deck, bothered.

“But aren’t I?”

“Kajack, no,” said Kretz at once. “That’s really not—”

“But I  _ am. _ No, I know, it’s a cliché. He did the whole ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ bit with me early on, and I basically told him where he could stick his apples, but I don’t know.” Kajack chewed on his fingernail. “I—I think I killed Morgan,” he confessed. “My brother. I mean, I think I wasted him away. It always had to be about me, and I ate up everyone’s time and attention and sympathy, and he could never say a word about it because I was—I was fragile.”

There was more to his confession, more involute layers to his guilt, but he bit his tongue there.

Kretz’s face had developed a remarkably constipated expression. He looked like he was battling the urge to write a very strongly-worded letter. Instead, he took Kajack into his arms and hugged him tightly. He squeezed Kajack’s thin arms, then drew back and squatted down, as if he were talking to a child. “I don’t want to be like my dad, either,” he said intently, staring up into Kajack’s face. “It seems to me that if you don’t want to become your father, then being in your twenties when you have that realization is the greatest gift the universe could give you.” He paused. “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago, and the second best time is now, right? Or however that saying goes. And for the record, Kajack,” he added, straightening up and turning away, “I’m not convinced you’re as mean  _ or  _ as selfish as you seem to think.”

“But I—” Kajack faltered. “I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “I guess that’s why I want to go back. I don’t think I can make him understand, but I would like—I would like—closure. Or a victory.”

Kretz nodded, looking pained. “I understand that,” he said, scratching his beard. “Just don’t forget where your roots are, kiddo. We love you.  _ I  _ love you.” This was a rare thing to hear Kretz say out loud, and Kajack closed his eyes, moved. “You’re good people and we want you to come home.”

“Uh,” said Bart. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt.” He waved his hand. His raven tumbled onto his wrist from the sky and squeezed its tiny claws into his sleeve, flapping haplessly for balance. “I spotted them on the boardwalk, sir. Looks like they were able to regroup after the storm, but I think we should get over there as fast as possible.”

“Why the rush?”

“Well, I just watched Viridios punch a man, and—” Bart broke off.

Kretz scrubbed his face. “Get inside and ready up, you two,” he snapped. “I’ll turn the boat around. Tell the rest to expect a fight.”

Bart protectively closed his leathery red hand around his raven and obeyed. Kajack paused by the door. He looked at Kretz, uncertain. Then, slowly, the way sunlight creeps through glass and warms it on the way, he understood that although the mood had dissipated, not a minute of it had been insincere. There would be softer, quieter, morning moments, provided they all survived, someday. For now the war was on.

The General was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Winter for drawing this scene!  
> \- Colleen for helping me with Kretz dialogue!


	29. The Battle of the Boardwalk

It was like the start of a bad joke. Viridios, Parisa, and Toulouse (shielded with a parasol) had gone for a stroll down the boardwalk. All drew looks, but none more so than Parisa, who was dressed in full Ambassador garb. That part was in accordance with the original plan. Parisa’s credentials would have gotten her into the Ati estate.

Then Viridios had balled his palm into one thick fist and swung a punch at a nearby young aristocrat who had been innocently talking with some other socialite friends by the water.

And it had all gone to hell from there.

“What in the godless  _ fuck  _ are you  _ doing,  _ Viridios—” Parisa elbowed someone’s manservant in the gut. Every socialite had a butler or a valet with them, and each had apparently decided their income was worth going to bat for their sirs, but, if that wasn’t enough, a squad of Keepers had blown in, too. “Forget to invest in any fucking brain cells, you filthy rodents?” Parisa sneered, rolling up her sleeves. Her hands ignited in flame up to the wrist. “You seem to need a reminder of who you’re dealing with. Hold _ still.” _

A Keeper creeping up from behind grabbed Parisa around the waist. Kajack winced. Before she could act, a second Keeper with a dazzling golden lapel pin had seized her by the elbow. He was visibly taking care to plant his grip above the delicate orange tongues licking up her bare arms. He leered at her and reached for the handcuffs at his waist.

“Unhand me!” Parisa barked, enraged. She twisted her head impossibly sideways like an owl and, to Kajack’s horror and fascination, sank her teeth into the golden-pin-man’s chin. When he opened his mouth to scream, she spat a glob of his own blood into it, spattering his face with red. “You pathetic excuse for a soldier! You couldn’t find your own shit in your trousers with both hands!” Parisa tore free and spun around, immediately slapping her fiery hands onto the cheeks and throat of the blockhead who’d grabbed her around the middle. “What’s wrong?” she sneered. “You gonna  _ cry?” _

The small crowd around Viridios wasn’t faring much better. Viridios was punching and clobbering indiscriminately. He hadn’t reached for a weapon, but was simply lashing out his crackling lightning limbs in every direction.

“Wow,” murmured Bart. “I wonder what got into him.”

It was Toulouse, the smaller and comparatively delicate man, on whom the Keepers converged as the easiest target. A pacifist by nature, and a vampire in daylight, no less, he still had the presence of mind to bear his teeth at the advancing Keepers, all of whom jerked back in surprise just long enough for him to drop his parasol and scuttle up over a low wall and disappear. A minute later, a minotaur—Hugearmious!—rose from behind the wall, holding Toulouse immobilized between his gigantic hoof-hands. Kajack gasped. “No! Toulouse!”

He made to scramble up over the pile of brush and driftwood where they were all hiding.

“No!” ordered Kretz. “You stay back.” He pulled Kajack back into the brambles. “You can’t be seen here. We don’t want to make Anaris or Ati or anyone else in that circle think you’ve gotten in touch with us. Right?” They’d fixed Kajack up with another earpiece, subtler this time, that clipped under the curve of his ear and blended in with his brown hair. “Focus on getting captured, son. We’ll take care of the Homerunners.” Kretz slapped Kajack on the back, once, and leapt out, drawing his sword with a clean, silver  _ shhhing. _

Luma was already in motion. And what motion it was! If a bullet were over six feet tall and graceful as a flea-bitten city cat, that’d be Luma, easy. Kajack kept his eyes trained on his best friend. It was like a magic trick. They vanished for a blink behind a stack of barrels and reappeared an instant later on the drainpipe of a nearby roof, sprinting for Toulouse, both fists bristling with knives.

“That one!” a Keeper yelled. Kajack’s eyes snapped over. The Keeper wasn’t pointing at Luma, but at Bart, who had slinked out into the open and was swirling his hands around a brilliant red spell. And indeed most of the Delta squad was approaching the battle now. Smolls hefted his battle-axe, as menacing as a bugbear with a heart of fluff could ever be, and slammed it into the boardwalk, sending Keepers scattering. (The smarter aristocrats had finally recognized that this scrap was bigger than any of them.) Kajack looked back at Luma.

Now they had entered  _ mêlée  _ range. Hugearmious bellowed and clobbered Luma with a giant fist. Luma lost their footing and fell back on the boardwalk, but—uncaring of the streak of blood that had appeared on their chin and cheek—they merely growled and somersaulted forward between Hugearmious’s legs. On the way, they slicked out their rapier and slid two whip-fast slices across Hugearmious’s inner thighs. Hugearmious roared in pain. He released Toulouse and lumbered around in a wide turn to pursue Luma.

“That’s Anaris’s man,” Kajack whispered to Marlon, the only member of the Delta squad who had remained in the bush with Kajack. “I guess the rest of my dad’s goons are nearby.”

Marlon had replaced his confiscated weapon with a temporary one from the Lumen’s stock, as the rest of them had, and was holding his bow steady and strong before him, calf muscles bulging in his rock-solid squat. Kajack leaned in until his lips were brushing Marlon’s ear. “Hey, I’m gonna take off, babe. Good luck.”

“You bet,” said Marlon. He loosed his arrow. It spun past Larkren’s blade, narrowly missed Kretz, who was tussling with an enraged nobleman; and rammed hard—at least four inches—into the lower back of a particularly menacing Keeper, who howled with pain as he went down and lay there, jerking, on the sandy boardwalk. “I mean, you too.”   
  
“Gimme kiss.” Marlon tilted his head up distractedly. Kajack kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, big boy,” he cooed, flouncing back. “Don’t get killed! For me!”

Marlon finally tore his eyes away from the action. He grinned. Goodness, but his face was all teeth for a moment, blindingly white in a smile very dear to Kajack. “I won’t if you won’t!” he called. Kajack put his finger up against his mouth, shushing him, and winked. And then he was gone.

He’d marked a cluster of palm trees earlier and made for them now. As soon as he’d skidded behind his cover, Kajack flung himself to the sand and chanced one last glance at the battlefield. Aha, they’d disturbed a hive; a door across the road was now hanging off its hinges, and Keeper after Keeper was pouring through it like ants closing in on a glob of jam. Smolls had one paw extended out before him, swirling with a brilliant beam of divine light; his eyes were glowing marvelous gold, and his lips were murmuring. A stream of metallic crashes drew Kajack’s attention. Kretz and Larkren were back-to-back, parrying a band of hyena-faced Keepers with their broadswords.

Kajack dimly heard Luma say to Toulouse, “Us and minotaurs, eh?” He looked over. Luma, having doubled back and swept Toulouse off his feet, was now carrying him into the shadows protectively.

And then Parisa again, back in frame, this time pressing the balls of her thumbs into the crumpling throat of a gasping Keeper and hollering in her ringing, poisonous voice: “You call that an  _ attack,  _ you brainless, scum-sucking troglodyte? I will chew you limb from limb and shit out your bones, you putrid piece of—”

Kajack hoisted himself up off the sand and sprinted, bent over, to the row of shops across the street: antiques, boutiques, leatherworkers, all pleasant and comely and well-furnished with window boxes and the pleasant scent of oiled wood. He slipped into the thin alleyway between them. Here, the sounds of the battle were muted. If he wanted to, he could make believe that the crashing and shouts and heavy thumps behind him were the sounds of a beach party getting out of hand.

Kajack did his best to look hopeless and lost.

He had trotted perhaps ten or fifteen feet down the alleyway and was wondering how to convincingly get himself recaptured when some flicker of destiny made him turn his head upwards, and there, squatting on the balustrade of a balcony with a pair of leatherbound binoculars, was Oliver Rose.

Perfect. A free ticket back to Nemesis. “Oliver,” Kajack cooed.

Oliver jerked and looked down from the balcony with wide, panicked eyes. “Sir!” he cried. Kajack was calm.  _ “Don’t  _ move!” Oliver stuffed his binoculars into his apron pocket and scrambled down the fire escape. Panting, he leapt the final three or four feet to the ground. “Goodness, sir, are you well? Did you find a place to stay the night? Of all the nights you could’ve picked to run away,” he added severely, “you had to go out in a  _ storm—” _

Kajack grabbed Oliver by the front of his shirt and slammed his spine against the brick boutique wall. Now their faces were only an inch apart. His heart was pounding slow, but heavy, and if someone had asked him what he was doing, he would have said he was “following his instincts.”

“I think you’ve forgotten all the reasons I might not be pleased to see you,” he hissed. “I just spent a night in the freezing cold. I nearly  _ drowned.” _ He paused for effect. “I’m  _ still in Bellichi.  _ I am  _ not  _ going to talk to you like we’re friends, Oliver. Either tell me the fastest way out of here or shut up.”

Oliver’s eyes were not wide and fearful, as Kajack had expected, but lidded. “Sir,” Oliver gasped, squirming against him. “My…”

Kajack let his teeth show. “At least tell me what you were looking at!”

“Sir, it wasn’t me, I was ordered to cast that spell,” said Oliver defensively. “On that tiefling brute that came through.”

“Tiefling?” Kajack reached down and dug his nails into a sensitive spot. “Say a little more about that.”

Oliver gasped.

“Ouch! One of our guards, she, she reported some strange characters. There was a yellow tiefling, big guy, covered in scars. Lord Anaris figured they were with your crowd and ordered me to get them arrested. I cast Suggestion on the tiefling, told him to start a fight. He was easy.” He winced. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Kajack let his eyes grow wide.  _ “My  _ crowd?” he gasped dramatically. Okay, maybe he was overselling it a little. “The Lumen…? Viridios?” He looked sharply to the end of the alleyway, where the shouting and groans of pain and crashing metal on metal were coming from, and started nosing his whole face around in the air like a rat trying to sniff out a freshly baked pie. “They’ve come for me?”

At this point Oliver clearly couldn’t justify going on with the conversation. With a great cry, he seized Kajack by the shoulders and slammed him to the ground. It was a short, unremarkable wrestling match, won handily by Oliver, and Kajack would have simply accepted his own defeat were he not enormously aware of the fact that Oliver’s pupils had dilated and his breath was coming quick. The heat from Oliver’s body rolled into his. Kajack lay supine, gazing helplessly up at the otherwise totally unremarkable elf who was sitting—yet!—on his lap.

Oliver cleared his throat. “I won’t let you get away,” he panted. His hand was resting lightly on the curve of Kajack’s chest. “I’m sorry, sir, but Lord Anaris will  _ not  _ tolerate the news that I let you escape again.” He snapped his fingers. His eyes swam with a brilliant white light. “I  _ suggest,”  _ he said, “you get up and come quietly, sir. Else I will have to hurt you.”

“Sure,” Kajack murmured. Even now, he couldn’t tell whether the spell had taken effect or if it simply fell in line with The Plan. “Yes. Sounds reasonable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Winter for providing Parisa dialogue!


	30. Impotence

Kajack curled his hands into fists in his pockets and wondered whether scenes of tragedies always looked so different in the daylight.

_ That  _ was the lawn and window where he’d collapsed. And in the sheeting rain and flashes of blinding light the night before, he had mistaken the elaborate curling waterslide on the side of the hotel up ahead for the rising throat of a terrible sea serpent. Currently, it was depositing a couple of pompous-looking children in the shallows. An older man was laid out on one of the hotel balconies, fully nude except for a tiny washcloth and a pair of cucumber slices (Kajack peered unblushingly at his exposed thighs). Up on the roof, a pale halfling woman in gigantic black circular shades and a sundress was fanning herself and sipping an orange drink. A few hundred feet behind was the very pier he’d run straight off of, twinkling still, wet, in the brilliant sun.

“Oh, the Bellagoria!” Kajack exclaimed. “I went in there last night! I tried to get a room, but the lady at the front said—”

“Yes, I  _ know,”  _ said Oliver irritably. A horse-and-carriage hitched to a quartet of white horses no bigger than show ponies trundled past, and Oliver grabbed Kajack’s arm and jerked him up onto the sidewalk before he was run over. “Lord Anaris had myself and Zhara searching from dusk till dawn for you. I lost two umbrellas.” He sniffed. “I had the pleasure of being told I’d ‘just missed’ you.”

“What are those?” cried Kajack, pointing. Oliver hastily took his hand and folded it back down to his waist. Kajack wondered for a moment whether he was really okay with being pushed around before he decided he liked it, or, at least, did not mind. He was enamored by the sight of a wild flock of pink, gay, long-necked vultures crossing the road together.

“Those are flamingos, sir. The city bird.”

“You remind me of a flamingo.”

“…Oh?”

“Like—” Kajack bit his lip. He had lost his grip on whatever flash of inspiration had made him say that. “Like, you’re also tall and skinny, and—” He examined Oliver. “—and you look like you’re going to fall over sometimes—”

“And I smell bad, sir. I get it. Hilarious.”

“What?” Kajack sniffed him. “You literally don’t. If anything, you smell sort of… garlicky? Like you’ve been working with spices?”

The look Kajack received then was one he had only seen a handful of times in his life. It was a mixture of disgust, concern, confusion, and, worst of all, personal dislike, but filtered, as if whoever bore the look had been worn down into offense instead of coming there organically. It said: you are not as charming as you think you are. Gwen got that look whenever he went too far over the limits of professionalism; Parisa hardly ever shook the expression off her face. In practice, it signaled that he had finally crossed the barrier between “acceptably ditzy” and “off-putting.” Kajack went quiet.

He put his hands in his big pockets again and went up on his toes with every step. The slope of the hill allowed him to look straight down into the wide, fenced lawn that came before the Bellagoria’s private beach. There was a pool, kidney-shaped. A croquet court, rectangular.

He looked straight into a sweet, tired-looking brown face enclosed by masses of deep curly hair. She was sitting upright in a patio chair by the pool.

It was as if one of the gods had suddenly opened and ushered Kajack through the doors of Time. Radiant, glowing, spine straight and true, the ghost stared up at him with such shock that for a few seconds her face would have belonged on the discoverer of a body in a crappy mystery play. Her eyes were so wide he could see the whites all the way around. Her soft long-fingered hands were frozen on a deck of cards. Her mouth rested in a perfect O.

And then Oliver was impatiently escorting him past the smoking brick tower at the edge of the fence, and Kajack was beyond the burnished columns and glittering silver doors of the Bellagoria Deluxe Spa & Resort™, and she was gone.

“Let’s go back,” said Kajack sharply.

Oliver stilled. “No, sir.”

“But I—”

“Sir, I have made it clear that I am not above using sorcery to bring you home,” said Oliver, exasperated. “You will come with me, one way or another, and there is nothing you can—”

_ The Plan,  _ Kajack reminded himself. Maybe it had been wishful thinking. Why would Kennick White, of all people, be _ here? _

“Don’t you want me to apologize for bothering the lady at the front desk?” he offered.

“What I want, sir, is to deliver you home safe and sound.” Oliver sighed. “You really picked a hell of a time. Lord Anaris made a generous donation to the Bellichi Aquarium in the past year, so David Cassio Milton, the famous curator, has sent him and his household an exclusive invitation to the opening of a brand new exhibit tonight. We agreed to attend it weeks ago. Thank goodness we found you. Lord Anaris would look terribly impolite if you didn’t come.”

“Is that  _ so.” _

Reluctantly, Oliver added, “I’m going, too. He has given me an ultimatum. He believes that I was responsible for letting you escape. If I do not show increased commitment to my orders, he’ll cut me off. I… I never signed on to be your babysitter, sir. Only your valet.”

Kajack rolled his eyes. 

More foot traffic was appearing on the sidewalk around them as they emerged into the swath of estates. They passed a mourning woman in a bustle, a grandly mustached man with a monocle and tiny wife, a blonde lady with four or five dogs sprouting from her various purses, and Dr. Liberty Taro. He mouthed  _ I think Kennick’s here  _ at her, but she just squinted at him bewilderedly through her gigantic spectacles and clacked onward. And then, as suddenly as Kennick had appeared before him, Oliver said, “Here we are,” and they were.

Oliver swept the doors open.

“Mr. Kajack Anaris.”

There was a moment of complete silence, and then Anaris, with all the grace of an overexcited dog, came clattering down the stairs. His face was shining with a vacant delirium that unnerved Kajack more than any glare. He caught himself at the bottom and straightened up, sweeping toward Kajack, arms open.

“Kajack!” he cried, pulling him into a brief hug. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Thank goodness you’re safe. My, you look terrible, boy. Have you eaten?”

The hug had rattled him, but Kajack was ready. “No,” he mourned. He’d shared a delicious tomato omelette with the gang not two hours before. “I was out all night in the  _ pouring  _ rain trying to get out of this stupid city.” He gestured at the clothes he was wearing, all sampled from the various trunks in the houseboat: the big pants, a pair of slippery patched socks of a material he didn’t recognize, an old pair of boots, a risky tank-top. He would miss the pants. “I guess you’ll want me to change clothes.” This part was triumphant: hah, Anaris, I got nothing of sentimental value on me this time!

His shoulders were awfully exposed.

If Oliver couldn’t tell the difference between a flat chest and dude titties, Kajack was willing to gamble with everyone else’s perception checks, too. Anaris tutted and clapped his hands. “Arrange a hearty brunch for Kajack and bring it to my study,” he said to Oliver, who nodded and stalked away. “No, Kajack. I have learned my lesson. I am happy to have you home, and I will only insist on a dress code when you appear before company. At the opening tonight, for example—”

“I suppose I don’t count as company,” purred the Duchess Castra Ati. She slunk out from a nearby chamber. Around her shoulders she clutched a thick white fur eerily similar in visual texture to the pelt of a bugbear. Her lips were a dark, dark red. Following her closely was the Princess Darla, sullen, blonde, pale, human; she made eye contact with Kajack and hovered there.

Anaris smiled thinly. “You count as  _ family.  _ But if the boy has his heart set on looking pathetic, the least I can do is indulge him. Kajack, you are welcome to use the powder-room—” he gestured down a nearby corridor—“to freshen up. Understand that I will have a guard stationed outside the door and every window.”

He wasn’t kidding. Five minutes later, Kajack came out of the washroom and scowled at the bald guard with the spear who prodded him in the direction of Anaris’s study.

“I  _ know,”  _ he whined.

He went in.

Anaris had set up his desk like a little table. All the globes of Tharcaen and books and pens and stacks of paperwork were still exactly where Kajack had last seen them, but they’d obviously been cleared off and replaced, or otherwise levitated with magic, because under them was a pristine white tablecloth. Kajack approached warily. On his side of the “table” was an empty chair and a tray stacked with eggs, breads, toasts, syrup jars, sauces of all shades, sliced ham and scallions, coffee.

“Uh,” said Kajack.

Panic swelled in him.

Ignore it! He forced a smile and leaned his weight on the back of the chair. “So, Father, you’re being awfully…”

“Eat,” said Anaris gently. “Then we talk.”

Kajack looked slowly at the plate. He was taken over by a slackness of the brain. His hands and stomach and lips and eyes felt grey and waxy. No, he thought. He was full.

He sat in the chair, proper, with his feet on the floor. He picked up the fork and rested it against the edge of a crust. It was a beautifully constructed toast, golden-brown, stiff, and slathered with butter.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Anaris prodded.

Kajack gulped and tried not to remember the dozens of times he’d dumped half a meal behind a tree or into a hastily-dug hole to get rid of it (get rid of it!) without the others seeing, or turned away a second helping, or gorged himself and cried about it. His stomach churned. He stared blankly at the fork in his hand, then raised his eyes, suddenly seething in the conviction that Anaris was testing him.

“I want to eat  _ alone,” _ Kajack snapped. “I’m not comfortable eating when someone is staring at me.”

“Why?” Anaris persisted, crossing his arms and leaning both elbows on the desk. “You had no trouble with all that bread at the dinner party, boy. Self-conscious? You’ll have to get over that. So much is discussed over lunches and dinners. I’ve made some of the best business arrangements of my life over picnics—”

Kajack seized handfuls of the tablecloth and crushed them in his fists. “Fine! Fine! Are we doing this? Okay, you said there was  _ too much of me!  _ You said I was  _ fat  _ and  _ superfluous!”  _ he shrieked. The lightheaded tingling began in his forehead and cheeks and ears and neck as his head flushed with blood. “Oh, my gosh, you sicko, you told me to eat less! I was nine years old, you—you stupid idiot. I was just a kid. Don’t you know that nine-year-olds remember everything you say to them, forever?”

Silence.

“Look at us with our memory,” Anaris purred. “However… if I said any of that, I believe I said it to the girl.”

Kajack shot up. A glass tinkled to the floor. “We were both boys! All right?” He grappled for an excuse. “We would dress one of us up as a girl because it got us more money. I don’t have a sister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

Kajack glared. “The less you know,” he said, through gritted teeth, “the better. I don’t care if it’s something stupid or irrelevant. I don’t want you to know  _ anything  _ about me. It doesn’t matter, anyway! The point is that you are a prick and a sadist and you don’t care about anyone but yourself and I hate you. No one here likes you! You hear me? They’re all sick of you!  _ No one  _ likes you! And you are a  _ pig _ for thinking little girls should eat less!”

Anaris stared at him beadily.

His lips moved.

Kajack dropped the fork. “Fine. Anyway, I already ate and lied about it.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Anaris. He gazed at Kajack for a minute. A light went away in his eyes. “Very well. Go.” He reached for the dish and jerked it away so sharply that a drop of jam spattered the side of his forehead. He dabbed it away with a handkerchief and jerked his head at Kajack furiously. “Go on!”   
  
Kajack shoved his chair to the side so hard it tipped and clattered to the ground. He marched to the door. His hand landed on the doorknob. But instead of turning it, he spun and bared his teeth at Anaris. “You wanna know something about me?” he cried. “You wanna know why I act the way I act?”

“What, Kajack.”

“I like  _ boys,”  _ Kajack spat. “Get that? I  _ only  _ like boys. I have a  _ boyfriend. _ I will  _ never  _ marry a lady and give birth and carry on your legacy.”

“Hah! Well, I certainly don’t expect you to give birth,” Anaris sneered, now with a palpable irony.

Kajack covered his mouth. “You—!”

“You will do as you are told, boy, preferences be damned.” Anaris’s eyes were glittering now. “You are not half as vapid as you act. We both know this. I also know you have surmised my little ‘problem.’” He paused. “She  _ cut my dick off,” _ he said harshly. “Cock and balls both, gone, for fifteen years, all because I asked her to marry me. I piss through a tube and I can’t produce the hormones I need without potions. What kind of a man—? Hell, I can’t even  _ fuck.” _

“How awful for you,” Kajack hissed.

Anaris slammed his fist on the desk. “You,” he snarled, measured, “have no idea what it is like to be a man without a penis.”

Kajack said nothing.

“You know what?” growled Anaris. “I think she really believed she was doing herself, and the world, a favor. How dare I ask the only tolerable woman in my life to leave the girl’s cowardly, insufferable,  _ weak-willed _ father and marry  _ me  _ instead?”

“Kajack?” said Luma in Kajack’s ear, tinny. “We’re… concerned. You were supposed to contact us as soon as you got a moment alone. Or did you forget?”

Kajack ignored them. He prowled forward, poking the toe of his boot into the corner of the rug as if planting a tiny flag, and flattened his back against one of the bookshelves. The truth was that he regretted getting into this fight. His gut was churning unhappily, and not from the sight of the food. The part of his soul that got soppy and sentimental was crying out in pain. He had failed himself. Being gay wasn’t supposed to be a weapon, nor retaliation, but an amulet. A lantern.

A red sweater.

It was not something his father had earned the right to know.

When Anaris’s breathing had cooled, Kajack whispered, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you were the one who had her husband…”

“Killed?” Anaris roared. He waved his hand, impatient, and slammed it down on the desk again so hard a globe toppled over. “Raleil, boy, she was planning to murder him anyway.” His face contorted. “She should’ve thanked me. Thanks to my involvement, Castra had a stone-cold alibi.”

“You are such a piece of shit,” said Kajack severely. “What I’m hearing is that you proposed to her, and when she said no, you killed her husband. Can’t you see what’s wrong about that? I’m not surprised she cut off your—” He shuddered and hugged himself. “Ugh!”

All the fight fell away from Anaris. He blinked at Kajack. “You think I deserved it?”

“Wow? I’m not even going to answer that,” said Kajack, who carefully wasn’t letting ethics creep into the conflict. All he cared about was that he, immature or otherwise, would never sink so low. He clapped his hands. “Well, I’m going to go to my room and take a nap and have a whole lot of nightmares about this conversation. Bye.”

He bolted out of the study.

The pair of guards posted outside reached for him. Kajack twirled his wrists and twisted free from their grip. “Just going to my room, gentlemen,” he said, shakily. They let him pass.

The white marble bedroom at the top of the tower was untouched and clean. All that suggested the presence of life was a single smudged footprint by the bed. He jammed a hand under the bed and, yes, there it was: the box with his hormones and needles, undisturbed. He ran through all the chambers off the central marble room and patted his hands over all the hanging suits in the walk-in closet to make sure nobody was hiding behind them. Then, at last, he dropped to the floor, rocking back and forth, legs crossed, and breathlessly activated his spell phone.

“Delta squad!” he cried, and gave kisses to each of them by name. “Where are you? What’s with the Homerunners? Everybody good?”

They were.

“I am really starting to hate Bellichi,” Kretz grumbled. “Can’t believe this is where our tax money goes. I’ve had to fight the urge to rob practically everyone I see.”

“Where are you guys?”

“Camped out in Bart’s—um—” Kretz leaned away from the microphone for a second. “His, uh, ‘Rope Trick’?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Kajack. “The treehouse.”

Bart’s ‘treehouse’ was one of Kajack’s favorite places in the world. It was a tiny portal that opened into a pocket dimension sixty feet off the ground (or the height of the ceiling, whichever was closer, as they’d discovered through trial and error), only accessible by rope. Once you scrambled up and pulled the rope through the hole, what was once a fascinating application of magical theory instantly became a secret, secure, enchantingly invisible hideout.

“—extradimensional space, but only eight people can fit up here, so Marlon’s down on the road keeping watch.”

“Sucks to be Marlon,” said Kajack.

“Oh, the Homerunners are with us, and they’re fine, and they say hi.” At this point, Kretz presumably held out the spell phone, because Kajack heard a brief masculine chorus. “Parisa also says hi.” Pause. “Anyway, we’re about a block down from the Anaris place. No sign of the spy yet. Status?”

Kajack breezed through the relevant points: he was back in the estate, no one had yet picked up that he was there voluntarily, and the Duchess Castra Ati was alive, unharmed, and, by all appearances, oblivious.

“Great. We’ve made good time. I don’t think we’ve ever had a more straightforward mission,” said Kretz, without a trace of humor. “Depending on when our spy shows their face, we could wrap this up and be heading home as early as tomorrow.”


	31. Quiet in the Library

A halfling woman on the roof of the Bellagoria hotel carefully peeled away her round sunglasses. She dabbed the waxy pale foundation off her face and throat with a piece of cotton and, grim, turned, pushing down the rippling skirt of her sundress.

In a low and grating voice, she said, “Battle’s over. Looks like the Lumen rebels got away okay. I lost sight of ’em when they headed down Locust street.”

Two feet boiling in a pair of snakeskin boots clicked across the concrete roof, past the tray of sunset-orange mimosas, past the fresh-chopped cucumber slices, past the naked tiefling, up to the ledge.  _ “Excellent  _ job, Noose. Osbourne. Up.”

“What’s the rush, dear?”

Osbourne was stretched out on a complimentary towel and had cast a complex series of runes on her heavy cloak to levitate it up in the air like a divider. Two hours before, she had been delighting over the hotel’s gold leaf black honey face scrub. Ziren tossed their braid.

“Not much. On top of everything else, now we have to watch out for Gwen’s gutless toddler pacifists.”

Kajack was electrified.

“You’re kidding,” he cried, delighted. “Tomorrow?”

Luma scoffed. “Don’t get the poor boy’s hopes up.” At the same time, Kretz said, “I’m not kidding.” He hastened to clarify. “—I mean, Luma’s right. This is a stakeout, and it could take weeks before our spy makes a move. But we know they’re in Bellichi. We know exactly who they’re after, we have eyes on their target.”

Several thousand miles away, a wan, exhausted Rasputin doctor finally finished taping a bandage around his patient’s chest, only to receive an urgent telegram about a conflict at the southern border.

“We’re counting on you,” Kretz went on. “Keep track of the Duchess’s daily routine. Tail her. Find out where she goes, who attends her. Whatever excuse you can come up with. And keep your earpiece clicked on.”

Kajack squirmed. “Ooh, so you’ll be listening in on everything I say, like a radio drama? What if I have a conversation I don’t want you guys to hear?”

Kretz sighed. “It’s a war…”

“Yeah, no kidding,” said Kajack fervently. “Well, gang, guess I’m gonna get on that. If you hear me say something weird, don’t read into it, okay? And keep in—mind—that you’ll only be getting the audio.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Kajack picked at his fingernail. “It  _ means  _ I might say something you think is weird,” he whined. “Or I might talk to myself. Don’t think I’m weird for it.”

“We won’t, Kajack,” said Smolls kindly.

“I can promise you,” said Luma, fond, “that I’ve heard you say ‘weirder’ things than whatever’s about to come out of your mouth.”

One by one, the Delta squad’s mics clicked off in Kajack’s ear, and then Kretz was gone, too.

What followed next was a frustrating fruitless hour. Oliver was nowhere to be found, which struck Kajack as annoyingly inconvenient and “just a little bit unprofessional, since for once I actually  _ need _ him”. No one wanted to talk to him, including Anaris, who was still sulking in his study, and when Kajack ran into Zhara, the latter—apparently recovered enough from the inflammatory Thunderwave incident to act neutral but still laconic enough to avoid him—just jerked a nod and kept walking. The Duchess, too, was worryingly elusive. She wasn’t in the guest rooms, which Kajack confirmed after a very awkward chat with the guards outside her door.

At last he tried the kitchen. He had been picturing something like the laundry room: indoors, functional, utilitarian;  _ kitchens,  _ not  _ kitchen,  _ singular. When he walked through the door, he had a brief moment of shock and could have sworn he’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into the botanical garden. The kitchen was sprouting all over with herbs and produce, all painfully green and fresh, nearly obscuring the countertops and woodstoves and pots and pans in this vast jungle of everything-green and pepper-yellow and tomato-red. A giant well sat in the center.

Kajack couldn’t help but pick a wrinkled leaf of basil off a nearby planter and nibble on it. There were barrels full of everything from peppers to plantains, jars of olives and baskets of gourds, and hanging from the sky were strings of corn and heads of lettuce so low Kajack had to duck to get around them. But there were meats, too, also dangling from above in ropy nets. Each carcass danced with tiny white orbs that—when Kajack reached for them—nearly burned his hand with cold. The ceiling itself, though netted off and visibly coated with a layer of charms to keep out bugs and moisture, was open to the sky. The whole place streamed with gentle sunlight.

And over by the glowing iron cookstoves, there was Monty, pink, dressed in a modest apron again, putting potatoes into a sack and giving instructions to a gnomish girl who looked barely older than her.

“Hey, Monty,” said Kajack, hustling over. “Where’s your mom?”

Monty’s head jerked up. She immediately dropped the sack of potatoes, looking hunted, and cringed and grabbed her apron with both hands. “Go see if the doc needs any help,” she said to the girl, who nodded and left the kitchen. As soon as the door had swung shut behind her, Monty’s tone changed. “Okay, Kajack, one thing you and I have got to be clear on is that I am not the Princess Darla.”

“But you—are—?”

She growled at him, chattering her tusks. “Not when I look like this! Gods, you’ve got a lot of nerve. Me and my mother moved all our stuff in yesterday and we’re sharing a suite downstairs, see? But, in case you’ve forgotten, I also have this housekeeping job, and most of my coworkers don’t know who I really am, so I can’t just ditch them without notice or a replacement. On top of that, my mom doesn’t actually know I  _ work here, _ so I have to totally avoid her while I’m cleaning and stuff or else she’ll ask me why I’m running around with my real face on at the Anaris estate!”

Kajack threw up his hands. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to say now? I didn’t know any of that!”

“You could’ve figured it out,” she said, calm again.

Monty looked tired. Her eyes drooped. There were dark circles under them, bumpy and baggy, like deep irrigations in her shattered pink face, and her hair was sagging to one side of her hairnet, evoking the look of the world’s saddest and most tragic beret. Her hands dangled heavily out of her pockets. With one claw, she reached down and started picking at the rough burlap corner of the sack of potatoes.

Kajack bit his lip. “Well,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I won’t out you, I promise. Isn’t my dad making this any easier on you?”

She shrugged wearily. “Takes time to hire new staff. ’Specially when you’re as paranoid as he is.”

“That sucks.”

“It’s whatever,” said Monty, rubbing her eye with her knuckle. “Anyway, yeah, if you were looking for the Duchess, she’s in the library right now.” Haltingly, she gave him directions. “Iunno what you want with her, but, like—I mean,  _ you  _ know.”

“Yeah, definitely,” said Kajack. “Thanks. Um. I’m really sorry I bothered you at work.”

Monty finally smiled at him. “Hey, y’know, you’re not a bad apple. Try not to let the rest of them spoil you.”

“You either,” said Kajack, who was struggling hard not to give in to the impulse to call her “kid.” He was already skipping backward toward the door. “I’ll see you around!”

The line between despair and pep was much thinner than Kajack would have liked, but he was amazed by his own capacity for tolerance when his friends were behind him; astounded, even, by the sincere confidence he felt just from the knowledge that an ally was nearby. The library itself was a magical, massive floating white globe hanging in the air to the north of the main tower of the estate and wasn’t connected to the rest of the property except for a delicate suspension bridge. He swaggered through the library doors.

And paused.

It wasn’t bad. The collection wasn’t nearly as complete as some libraries he knew of, sure, but it had enough books to visually conjure the Star Spire in Europa. Kajack couldn’t put his finger on the problem until he shuffled a few tentative steps through the double doors, and then it hit him: there was no decoration. No cozy fireplace, no comfortable seating, no passion. Bland carpet. Cold steel beams. The archive was clearly well-maintained, and the shelves were thick with tomes of all colors and sizes, but except for a freckled lady librarian in a wheelchair, a doddering couple of elderly folk from the fancy party, and the Duchess, there was no life here.

Yes, Kajack liked books. Not as much as Bart, certainly, and not enough to integrate the interest into his identity. But a little knot in his throat tightened whenever he came upon a library. He’d never been educated in a classroom setting, which, perhaps paradoxically, meant he knew intimately the value of books; he and Morgan used to steal them off library carts for each other when they were young and poor. But Kajack had always figured the authors wouldn’t mind if a little kid took just one copy out of a thousand.

He wandered into the stacks and picked out a book entitled  _ Leutenic Collection IV: Mallart-Quorus. _

The Duchess Ati was curled up in a plush window seat with a book. The window was to the west and faced the sea. In other words, there was nowhere for a potential archer to hide. Kajack whispered all of this into his earpiece.

Kretz’s mic clicked on. “Great. Let us know if she moves.”

“How are you guys doing?”

“Well, we sent Marlon to get coffee half an hour ago, and you won’t believe this, but coffee in Bellichi costs two rooks, each. Each!”

Kajack moved through the library, still observing the Duchess out of the corner of his eye, and pulled up a chair (heavy, detailed, inlaid with glass) at a table. He cracked open the tome and flipped through its pages until a random spurt of Common jumped out and caught his attention:

> We raised the torch and looked upon
> 
> The band of feral-men surrounding our camp.
> 
> These Eyes are not Eyes
> 
> But sinkholes sucking victims to the world beneath the sand.
> 
> Such were my thoughts upon viewing the feral-men.
> 
> The holes in each blank face swallowed me in spasms
> 
> Like the swallowing muscles of snakes.
> 
> What do you want? said I, afraid. I did not know the language.
> 
> Our flies mingled and swapped the sweat on our glistening bodies
> 
> Until suddenly the stinging blood trickled into understanding.
> 
> These Mouths are not Mouths
> 
> But pits of balm and song. Such were my thoughts when saw I
> 
> The canvas tarp surrounded by rocks to keep out the wind.
> 
> A knighted Gíh lay bloodied on the cloth.
> 
> Their helm, which produced from its mouth a giant beak, was stained
> 
> With blackened mud, and fearsome claws poked out from leather gloves.
> 
> Schaal glimmered on their lucent mail like a tenebrous flame.
> 
> The medicine-women boiled their poultices with tongs.
> 
> These Hands are not Hands
> 
> Nor feathered talons. I held the scaly things and looked upon their
> 
> Withered skin. A circle round with delicate coiling details
> 
> Glowed on the back of one in vibrant swampy green.
> 
> In that light we restored the Knight to health.
> 
> The creature never spoke. When we had removed the silver plates
> 
> Their eyes beneath were wide and gold. What are you? I asked.
> 
> What are you, feathered, clacking thing?

Kajack gazed at the words. His eyes traced up and down the page as he worried his lip between his teeth. Then he eyed the green mark on his own right hand, fresh and viridescent as the day it had first appeared on his skin.

His mother had occasionally referred to the sensation of “someone stepping on my grave.” The passage in this book made him feel like he was stepping on someone else’s grave, a long time ago.

He didn’t want to know. He let the book fall shut and got up to get another. Like a ghost, he passed between the stacks, tracing his hands across each of the spines on the shelves:  _ The Fox’s Bride and Other Stories. The Works of Moya Knife-Knife. A Detailed History of Men and Fish.  _ Why did Anaris have all of these?  _ The Irmarupture.  _ Kajack retrieved  _ Fabel Fambles  _ from the shelf and sat down right where he was standing on the carpeted floor.

> “Briste, we musn’t,” I gasped. His slippery dragonborn tongue coiled playfully around my nipple through the thin fabric of my shirt. When I looked down, I could see the faint glimmer of moisture by the fiendish, blazing geoluhread glow of his eyes. I could still hear Molly and the others bustling around upstairs and fought to suppress a telltale cry. “Ah! They’ll hear us.”
> 
> “Let them,” Briste growled, undoing my belt with a flick of one clawed hand. He slid his other hand across my bulging love meat. “Unh! Theodred…”
> 
> I had forgotten I could touch him. Tentatively, I pressed my hand against his shoulder, moaning as he gripped my sausage in his palm and began to roughly stroke me. His hands were still hot from sunning outside. I gasped as I recalled the sight of his bare scales in the lazy afternoon sunbeams.

Kajack glanced up and squinted through the shelves at the Duchess, who impassively turned a page in her novel and stretched her spine.

> Briste pressed the pad of his thumb against the head of my pleasure stick. All thought went out of my head. I squirmed in his grip and buried my face in his wide shoulder, choking down sobs. “Yes,” I moaned. “Ooh, Briste, there…”
> 
> One of his hands snaked down the back of my pants and squeezed my ass, bringing another moan to my lips. I could feel the weight of his tool pressing wantonly against my stomach. With bulging muscles, he spun me around and shoved me against the wall, and, liking the look of my cheek pressed to the cold stone brick, he tilted his hips forward, rubbing his hardening length against the seat of my pants. Then, without warning, he thrust his pork sword between the hot flesh of my loins.
> 
> “Oh! Not so rough!” I cried.
> 
> “Sorry, Theodred,” he murmured passionately. “I’ve never been with an elf before.”

It was all in Elvish, so he read a little bit of it aloud—quietly, because this was a library—for the other elves’ benefit. It got boring a little later in the chapter and he stopped when Theodred was “negotiating a peace treaty” with the Drogonian diplomat.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Anaris,” said a soft voice.

Kajack jerked and looked up. The Duchess Ati was standing at the end of the aisle of shelves, clutching a book to her stomach the way one would clasp a little purse and smiling.

“May I borrow you for a minute?”

“Yes,” he said warily. He put the erotica back on the shelf and crept toward her. He felt like a long shadow on a hot day. “Um… what do you want, ma’am?”

“Sit with me.”

With one elegant, vanilla-scented glove, she beckoned him over to a library table. He obediently took the seat opposite and waited for her to get her skirts tucked around herself.

It was so quiet.

The Duchess Ati smiled knowingly and leaned forward.

She examined Kajack’s face with an intensity so strong he could almost feel the touch of her gaze on his cheek. Her eyes were wide and round and lined with age, and a very pretty color, but Kajack felt weird and uneased whenever he looked straight into them, so he looked instead at her swaying earrings. One of them refracted the light from the window and cast a perfect circle of white light onto her ivory cheek.

At last, her lips—she had a single, delicate scar on her top lip—moved. “Good morning,” she murmured. “Afternoon now, perhaps. I’ve been too lazy to check the time.”

Kajack did not say anything.

“Kajack,” she said, delicately, tasting every fragment of the name as it rolled over her tongue. A bolt of ice slipped through Kajack’s spine and froze him all over. “Very handsome. You bear a striking resemblance to your father around the brow and cheeks.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Kajack, as quiet as he could manage in the oppressive silence of the library. “I’m glad you brought my father up, because I got some questions.” He looked her dead in the eye. “I want to get some facts straight. My dad said you hurt him in a real gory way. Is it true?”

“Well, yes.”

Kajack stared at her. “Why? What’d he do? Was it because he killed your husband?”

Her eyes widened playfully. “Is that what he told you? Oh, my. No. Well, I had a delicious assassination paid-in-full on my husband at the time, so yes. I was mildly upset.” She paused. “More so that he was sloppy. The dear sentimental idiot could have gotten himself, and therefore me, caught, for goodness’ sake! But heavens, no. Not for that would I retaliate on such a…  _ personal  _ level.”

Kajack swallowed. “Then—?”

She chuckled. “Oh, it’s simple, dear,” she said baldly. “The little slut was slipping it to commoners.”

Kajack was very, very still.

“He couldn’t be trusted. I used to call him Coppélia when we were young, after the heroine, because of the little class-whore he was. And not just human poors! I caught him doing filthy things with a genasi courtesan once. I told him it’s a slippery slope from there to goblins. But then you’d know,” she whispered, examining his features again. “At least he chose a pretty elf girl to knock up, and not a… gnome, or an orc, or a goblin, or a  _ tiefling.”  _ She set each word into the space between them cautiously, the way a discreet lady might handle an unfamiliar pair of panties discovered in her drawer: between thumb and forefinger. “You’re lucky.”

Kajack swallowed and made himself reply. “Oh… kay.”

“You know, I met your mother,” she said. “Not when she was with your father, oh, no. The first time I met your father was, oh, a handful of years after he washed his hands of that whole mess. But I had a feeling she was a gem, so I sought her out. Made her play me a little song.” She smiled again. Her lips were thin and dark and cut a crescent across the eerie-white expanse of her cheeks. “Do you remember me?”

And then suddenly Kajack  _ did.  _ It was a blurry, ancient memory, so distant he was half-convinced he was making the whole of it up, but there it was: the dingy little tavern that smelled of rats and smoke and stale beer, and every surface was unpleasant except for the fine lady’s skirts, which were soft and slippery and cold. The fine lady smelled of vanilla. He remembered being held and lifted up and laughing because the lady’s hands were powdery from the makeup. Later that day, Morgan had whispered to him that their mother was worried.

The Duchess sighed. “Shame about what happened to her.”

Kajack blinked. “What happened to her?” he asked, urgently, in the split second before he recognized the remark as bait.

“Oh, Mr. Anaris,” said the Duchess in mock surprise. A rancid little grin crawled across her face. “Well, I wouldn’t concern yourself with that. Anyhow, the last straw was when your father asked me to marry him. Me! As if I were…” She shook her head. “As if I were no better than his riffraff mistresses. That little pecker had been in everything,” she added dryly. “It had to go.”

Kajack stood. “Uh, yeah, speaking of going.  _ I’m _ going.”

“I’m not going to cut yours off, honey. Don’t be afraid.” She was smiling a horrible, hideous grin. “Very well. I suppose I’ll see you tonight at the event.”

“Oh,” said Kajack, hating that his obligation to the Lumen bound him to where he stood, “the aquarium thing. I guess you’re going?”

Could he be any hammier about the fact that he was wearing a wire? It had been, he decided, a real blunder to designate himself the Lumen’s  _ femme fatale  _ when Viridios was right there, _ and  _ more subtle, bless him.

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” The Duchess placed her book upright on the table and rested her chin atop it innocently. “I don’t suppose you ever had the chance to become acquainted with the curator?” Kajack shook his head. “Dear Mr. Milton has sent us all an exclusive invitation to visit the grand opening of his newest shark enclosure. Well,” she added laughingly, “the invitation was to Tino, but he’s taking all of us.”

Kajack envisioned the Delta squad flipping on all the alarm bells in the treehouse.

“It was nice talking to you, ma’am,” he said softly. “I mean no offense, but unless you have something else to say to me, I’d love to get back to my book.”

The Duchess looked surprised, but she nodded, sliding her own book back onto her lap. “Handsome  _ and  _ well-spoken. Enjoy your reading.”

Like a threatened animal scrambling into the safety of the dark, Kajack retreated into the stacks.

“A whole new venue with undocumented floor plans,” he muttered into his spell phone as he hustled past  _ Analysis of the Middle Wars  _ and  _ What The Gods Want. _ “What’s not to love?”

“Never thought this mission would turn into us crashing yet another fancy party,” said Kretz, wearily, in his ear. “But if I had to guess, I’d say this event is exactly the sort of opportunity our spy has been waiting for.”


	32. Sharks in the Sea

_ Eight,  _ said the invitation,  _ or eight-thirty, at your convenience. _

They ate, which was a simple word. Eating. The rich ate, the poor ate, spies and marks ate, mangy stray dogs gobbled up abandoned potato shavings and globs of fat in the road, and in nearly every case across Tharcaen, the body swallowed and remade itself again.

Kajack had stuck to the Duchess like glue. He’d left occasionally throughout the day at the suggestion of his squad to give the impression that he wasn’t actually stalking her, and in those intervening hours he practiced sparring on the lawn with Oliver and one of the guards. It was, by all appearances, a lazy day.

Tailing the Duchess meant he got a couple glimpses at her guest chambers and even a polite invitation inside. Her rooms were dazzling. Not in the earthy, dark, diamond-cave style Anaris had adopted for his own; they were bright. She liked reds and oranges. Her walls were covered in tapestries with imagery of golden suns (“Likely Keeper propaganda,” said Kretz, though Kajack didn’t need the clue to recognize signs of Raleil extremism). Open suitcases packed with books on the warlock practice and various warlock memorabilia, such as a sun altar to Raleil and a collection of offerings, gave Kajack the impression that she was either a committed spellcaster or a tryhard wannabe. In an intricate wire cage, a tiny pink songbird with a proud pale breast, round as a ball and sprouting a pillowy display of fluffy tail feathers, was hopping around and chirping out a tune in a childish human voice. The Duchess offered it a tiny blue-black grain—a seed—which the animal pecked out of her palm.

They ate, too. They ate at six. It was a conservative meal of glazed duck and just about the most discomfiting dinner table atmosphere Kajack had ever experienced.

It was more than relieving when Oliver stepped into the parlor and announced seven-forty-five on the clock. Kajack surfaced and sucked in breath like a dying man.

“If the ladies have no objections,” said Anaris cheerily, “I suppose it’s time to see a man about a shark.”

The carriage they boarded was larger, blacker, and more imposing than the one Oliver had taken into town. Instead of a seat facing forward with an open-top roof, it had an actual compartment with two plush lounges facing each other. Kajack spent most of the ride looking out the window. The leftover clouds hanging around from the storm spewed a weak spatter of stray raindrops, which hit the tinted glass window and curled round and round in tiny question marks.

Kajack surreptitiously adjusted his glossy, flappy, stupid-looking outfit around the chest. It was digging. “How much longer is it?” he asked sulkily.

Anaris looked over. “Five more minutes, boy. Be patient.”

In his ear, Kretz made an immediate exclamation of displeasure. “Damn it! We’re still preparing. Might be crashing the event a little later than hoped. Kajack, take point. The mark knows the spy by sight, so we expect them to use an accomplice here. Look for suspicious faces, smuggled weapons.”

He couldn’t reply, obviously. He looked out the window again and said nothing.

The front entrance of the Bellichi Aquarium was preceded by an enclosed patio behind a wrought-iron fence and a tall, intricate gate. A couple beggar children were huddled outside. Beyond it was a clump of elegant lords and ladies, most holding umbrellas, all listening politely as a round little man with a shiny red face read something off a scroll of parchment at the top of the steps. Oliver hopped out of the driver’s seat and unfurled a black umbrella. Zhara, who had been crouching on the back of the carriage, sprang down at Anaris’s crooked finger and strolled smartly up to his boss’s shoulder, perfectly poised.

“Why is Zhara here?” Kajack whispered to the Princess Darla. She turned her round fish-eyes on him. For all the rigid facial posture she’d thrown on in her human disguise, he could still see the cold quirk of Monty’s eyebrows appear beneath the plucked ones on her brow.

“Lord Anaris never goes anywhere without protection,” she whispered back.

“Excuse me, sirs, madam, miss,” said one of the two Keeper guards at the edge of the fence. Kajack stiffened. “Past this gate, it’s invitees only.” Anaris produced his invitation from his inner pocket and displayed it wordlessly between two fingers. “Yessir. Had no doubts about you. Thanks.”

The other Keeper cleared his throat. “I’ll need to take your weapons for the evening.”

_ “Shit,”  _ whispered Luma.

“Yours, too, mister,” said the guard to Zhara, gesturing toward the rack of daggers hanging indiscreetly from Zhara’s thigh. Zhara flexed his hands and moved his jaw around in his mouth.

“My manservant,” said Anaris coolly, “will keep his weapons. I have a permit.”

A whispered conversation broke out over Kajack’s earpiece. “That’s how we can get our weapons inside—” said one, and “—but we’d need a permit—”

Anaris retrieved a slender blade from his breast pocket and the showy rapier from the strap across his back and deposited them both into the Keeper’s arms. The other Keeper nodded curtly and raised a hand. The gate swung open. In the very same instant, one of the poor children looked up pitifully at Kajack, who gasped and staggered, taken in by the bright brown eyes.

Anaris put a cautioning hand on Kajack’s shoulder. Kajack, hating himself, glided in and joined the crowd.

“Look at Mr. Milton,” the Duchess said. “My, he’s getting on in years, isn’t he?”

The little man reached a crescendo in his speech and proudly flung open the front doors. A low murmur broke out across the crowd as the glow of a gigantic lit tank filtered out into the wet, dark patio. Kajack got up on his toes to peek over the heads and umbrellas, but he could only see a sliver of bluish-green light, which he supposed was the shank tank. The speech resumed and went on into a list of names. One lady in the crowd coughed impatiently.

Kajack nudged Anaris in the side and leaned close. “What’s going on?”   
  
A shadow of a smile flitted across Anaris’s wan face. He looked nearly green in the powerful glow. “Do you recall my dinner party earlier in the week?” he murmured back. “That was about networking. I host people like the marquis in my private parties because it is invaluable to build personal relationships among the powerful. I organize parties with politics in mind.

“This is less so. We have already performed the requisite political action—philanthropy—and now we are being lauded for it. The aristocracy, it likes… to have fun, you see, to ‘cut loose,’ to indulge in certain freedoms, and Mr. Milton up there knows it. I imagine there will be substances at this party, cocaine, harder drink… music. Dancing again, but for  _ real, _ not for the appearance of it. Not my style.” He raised an eyebrow. “Yours, perhaps, from what little I know of your exploits.” He blinked slowly and straightened his posture, facing the front again and looking bored.

Kajack had a horrible image of all the oily rich people in the crowd grinding on each other while signaling their private butlers to bring them baggies of cocaine. He shuddered.

“Okay, we’re in,” said Toulouse suddenly. His fretful voice compelled Kajack to picture the little man fiddling with his glasses and worrying his hands. “Bart already got past the gate, and L-Luma and Parisa are getting their weapons checked now. We can see you! Oh, uh, actually, that’s not a good thing. You and the mark had better get inside quick. It’s bad that you’re out in the open like this. Oh, dear.”

Bart? Kajack mouthed. He resisted the urge to look around wildly.

“He’s the human man in the red cloak. We thought it would be better not to send too many of us after the fight this morning. But Bart can disguise himself, and Luma’s, um, Luma’s got a good feel for crowds like this—”

“Toulouse, I can  _ hear  _ you blushing,” Kajack muttered into his mic.

“Pardon?” Anaris looked inquiringly toward him, and Kajack immediately started up a wheezy fake cough into his elbow.

“—anyway,” said Toulouse sheepishly, “we thought it’d be worth the risk. Oh! And they’re through. Looks like Luma was able to smuggle in at least one dagger.” Beat. “Yep, they just gave me a thumbs-up. Kajack, have you spotted anyone who might be the spy yet?”

Kajack shook his head from side to side in a tiny, barely distinguishable motion.

“Okay. Keep a lookout!”

The rippling sound of umbrellas closing caught his attention. The crowd was seeping forward through the doors. Kajack looked behind him as they began to press forward and caught a single glimmering outline of light blue, and then it was gone, and he was moving through the dim aquarium foyer after the rest. Zhara leered down at him.

The greenish-blue light was actually generated by the shards of glowing fluorite embedded in the walls. Kajack swept through the eerie channels along with the crush of muttering aristocrats until he unexpectedly found himself walking across the sea floor itself.

He looked around, mouth hanging open, at the brilliant ocean. Never in his life had he visited or even thought about the interior architecture of a public aquarium. The sight of the fish and octopuses and great billowing squids and schools of tiny darting flecks of life in every color gliding and slipping through the currents around the arched clear hallway moved him, and he shivered and put his arms around himself, recalling the desperate horror of drowning and goggling anyway at the shimmering magic of this previously unimagined world beneath the sea. It was like nothing he had ever dreamt.

Eventually the passageway widened into an enormous circular carpeted chamber with a mountainous column tank in the very center.

“The Daughter of Talu!” cried the little man, spreading his arms wide.

The creature in the tank was gigantic. Big as a dragon, bigger, it was the shape of a great white shark, but decorated in bulging scales and horn-like growths and fiendish, bloated features and spines hanging from its back. It spiralled through the water slowly and painfully, as if dragged by a rope or chain. There were gasps and sighs from the crowd. Mr. Milton went on to describe the efforts it had taken to design and build the tank itself.

Kajack looked around. The Duchess was gone.

Mortified, he got up on his tiptoes again and peered over the heads of the other patrons.

“I’ve lost the Duchess,” he whispered into his earpiece. Oliver, who was standing right next to Zhara, frowned and looked over his shoulder at Kajack quizzically.

“Got it,” Luma muttered back. “I have eyes on her. She’s going for the bathrooms. Parisa and I will cover her.”

Kajack calmed down. He observed that there were not many spots in the room for an assassin to hide or lay a trap. There was a sloped part of the floor that went halfway up the wall with a low grade and connected to a flight of precarious metal stairs, which he supposed led to another floor; a set of lavish benches around the tank with soft red cushions, a handful of actual hookahs erected and surrounded with plenty of soft pillows and hassocks, and a clean, showy-looking bar. A pair of identical human men were standing behind the bar and performing captivating mixology tricks.

“Bart, are any of the drinks at the bar poisoned?” Kajack whispered. “Is there a spell you can cast to detect it?”

There was a pause, then Bart responded softly: “I’m sure there is one, but I don’t know it. Parisa?” Another pause. Luma answered.

“It would be… irresponsible to poison an entire bottle, not knowing which drink the target would choose. If the spy intends to use a poison, I suspect they will be more subtle.” He caught sight of them at last. Parisa and Luma, dressed fabulously in a modest wine-black dress and a crisp black suit respectively, were standing together about fifteen feet away from the door to the bathrooms. A master class in background acting, Luma was gesturing as if they were deep in conversation with their companion, and Parisa was nodding seriously back at them. Mr. Milton’s speech was over. The crowd was dispersing around the room into little social pairs and trios.

Kretz: “Keep an eye out for what the target drinks. And for gods’ sakes, keep your voices down! Stop talking about poison!”

Kajack went up to the bar and smiled invitingly.

“Hi,” he said. “Is this an open bar?”

“Indeed it is, sir,” said one of the twins. “What do you fancy? A classic Mellovessian dry? Our blended house wine? A Wounded Healer? A harder drink, perhaps; a shot, a Pixie Spit?”

“You guys got a rosé?” said Kajack, who had virtually no experience with high-end alcohol but liked the color pink. The other twin produced a bottle and glass and poured an efficient stream of pale peach-colored wine. Kajack took the glass and swished the wine around. It had a faint odor and looked like fruit punch.

Luma hissed in his ear: “She’s going upstairs.”

“On it!”

As he trotted across the room, Anaris drifted over.

“Good evening.”

“Hey,” said Kajack, caught off guard. Anaris’s eyes were exceptionally pale.

“How are you liking the wine, dear boy?”

Reluctantly, he took a sip. It tasted rich, acidic, fruity. His capacity to recognize the virtues and failings of a wine was so poor it may as well have been grape juice. “Yeah, delicious. Excuse me. I got somewhere to be.” Anaris’s hand shot out and encircled Kajack’s wrist with the grace and accuracy of a striking snake. Kajack froze.

Anaris said very quietly, “I hesitate to approach you about a sensitive matter in the middle of a public event, but I will be quiet, discreet, and concise  _ as long as you are,  _ too.”

“Okay,” said Kajack warily.

Kretz tapped the mic. “If you need to get out of there, Kajack, mention the wine again and we’ll extract you.”

“Do not think that your interest in our guest has gone unnoticed.” Anaris watched him blanch. “Pray, tell me. What is on your mind?” He loosened his grip on Kajack’s wrist and circled him. “What do you think of her?”

Kajack bit his lip. Crap. “Umm… I think she’s a super dangerous and unpredictable individual, and I think it’s weird that you’re cool with her,” he said stoutly.  _ “I’m  _ not, so I’m watching her, the way your guards watch me.” Quick! he thought. Flip it back onto Anaris. “Basically,” he added scornfully, turning away and chugging his glass like it was a bottle of water, “you have, like, the worst taste in women.”

Pause.

“I was referring,” said Anaris icily, “to the Princess.”

Kajack groaned and bounced on his heels. “Why do you like Castra Ati so much?”

“I do not like her. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Kajack stared at him. “She cut your dick off! She called you a slut! Snip, snip, she’s gone! You shouldn’t even be talking to her!”

Anaris narrowed his eyes at Kajack. “Lower your voice  _ now. _ Your passionate crusade against the person who hurt me is acknowledged and thanked and, I assure you, unwanted. I did not want this aspect of my life to creep into yours. It is an issue with—with lots of shades of grey, and I see you do not do well with those.”

Kajack flipped his gloved right hand around so the back was facing Anaris. “That is the only thing you’ve ever gotten right about me, old man. I only work in shades of green.”

Anaris studied him for a second.

The gigantic shark paused at the end of its enclosure and turned its nose around to resume its slow circuit with mighty dignity.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

The round little man puffed up like a steamboat between Kajack and Anaris and looked between them, beaming.

“Sir, my most esteemed thanks,” he said to Anaris, wringing his hand, “for your donation that made all this possible! Oh, I just can’t believe the leaps and bounds we’ve taken here, really something! There’ll be a fundraiser later in the night for the sea otter exhibit, poor dears—”

Mr. Milton bumbled away ebulliently.

“What if I said I’d stay?”

Anaris blinked. “What?”

“What if I said I’d obey you without question, no more escape attempts, and bear your—and further your line, I mean, with the only caveat being that you never talk to her again or have her around? Would you do it for  _ me?” _

“Are you offering?”

“No,” said Kajack vehemently. “Never. I would never do that. I just want to see how much I actually mean to you.”

Anaris exhaled. “No,” he said, finally. “I would not.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Kajack waited.

“Well?” he demanded, when it became clear that Anaris was not going to continue unprompted. “I know you only care about me because of the whole ‘blood’ thing, but that’s big for you, so what makes this woman more important than getting an heir and continuing the line? Than  _ me?” _

Anaris cast an impassive eye at Kajack’s glass. “I think I will talk to the bar about cutting you off.”

“What the fuck? I haven’t even finished one glass. And this isn’t even that—”

“I do not think I would have answered that question the way I am answering now,” said Anaris carefully, “when you first arrived.”

“Oh,” said Kajack. “So, what you’re saying is, it’s easier to crawl after the person who violently attacked you than it is to put a leash on me, and if you had to choose between us, you’d go for her? Or do you just want this woman to peg you that badly?”

“It’s not a matter of ease, Kajack. I have simply gotten to know you more over the past few days.” He paused. “I need some fucking air.”

He crossed the greenish-blue chamber and went up the stiff metal stairs. Kajack set his glass down on the arm of a bench and followed, mutinous, only to freeze at the top. The stairs led straight onto the roof of the aquarium. There was a subtle magical dome encircling the building that shielded visitors from the rain. The enormous central slopping tank was open—though fenced—to the sky. His pulse sped. The Duchess Ati was thirty feet away, blithely chatting with a half-circle of other women.

A single bard with a violin was strutting around the tank, dipping and swaying. A few pairs of invitees were dancing lightly around the roof. When Kajack looked out over the bay, he glimpsed the silhouette of the  _ Unity  _ drifting through the muggy mist.

Anaris went to the eastern edge and held out his hand over the balustrade. The alligator signet ring on his middle finger glimmered dully in the light of the stars, and the streets twinkled quietly below with late-night activity. He let his hand fall to his side. “It’s a matter of love,” he said eventually, turning back to Kajack, who’d almost entirely forgotten that he was engaged in conversation.

“Ew. What?”

“I speak of love with no embarrassment, Kajack. You will never be happy here. I thought, at first, you would, if I taught you how. Now I see only an unhappy, grey, bleak future, and, someday, an eventual grandchild you resent who goes on to regurgitate the same cycle of bitterness and vitriol we have for each other onto their own children. The Anaris line died with me,” said Anaris calmly, “and you are Molucella, through and through.”

“So let me go,” said Kajack fiercely.

Anaris’s hand flexed. He turned his head and looked at Kajack with a face utterly devoid of passion or emotion. “No.”

“Why!” Kajack burst.

Anaris’s eyes were as light and cold as snow. “Because it is more satisfying to break you.”

Kajack angrily opened his mouth, closed it, turned around to check on the status of the Duchess, and halted. All emotion flooded from him. Approaching him was a familiar woman in a pair of sandals and a coreopsis-yellow dress that flowed around her ankles with a fluidity that made her look like a six-foot butterfly. She stared at him, face bloodless.

At last, she smiled wide, lips parting beautifully, and extended one dark hand. “Countess Margarita of the Sarzayan city-state of Ta’aslé.”

Anaris was gazing at her with an indefinable interest. His eyes kept sliding over to Kajack, then back to the countess, then to Kajack, who, haunted by a terrible, pleading knowledge, only hesitated for a breath.

He resolved and took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Kajack Anaris,” he said indifferently. “Pleasure.”

Now they were looking at each other with gleeful mischief, swathed in their fake identities like kids playing make-believe.

“Care to dance?” offered Kennick White.

“Absolutely,” said Kajack firmly.


	33. Kennick and the Two Duchesses

“I,” Kennick announced in a soft voice, “am supposed to seduce this evil rich lady and get her away from the crowd so my boss can interrogate her and then push her into the shark tank.” The dance was a variation on the classic waltz. It was just a box step with a few extra flourishes. They shuffled around the roof in a wide square.

“Your turn.” She beamed at him. “Why the hell are _you_ here?”

“Ooh, Kennick! All these years, and you still know just what to say to make me feel special.” Kajack pressed a hand to his heart. Kennick grabbed it and moved it back to her hip. He lowered his voice. “You know, unless a series of unrelated murder plots are all converging on the same aquarium on the same night, we might just be here for the same reason. Are you after the Duchess Castra Ati?”

She grinned. “Yeah, that’s the name. Can you point her out to me?”

Kajack dipped her. “Blonde.”

“Ah,” muttered Kennick, rising again. “I saw her.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Well, the only boy in our party is a centaur, and I’m a bard.” Kennick smiled roguishly. “Believe me, there were _discussions._ Seriously, why’re you here?” She tugged at one of his brown curls, respectfully, in clear wonderment. “What’s the deal?”

He put his mouth close to her ear and explained as they swirled and spun over the tiles. “The short answer is I’m here to stop you. Well, I’m here to stop Ziren—” He watched her eyes. “That’s your boss, right? The Lumen needs the Duchess alive. She’s, like, in contact with the Fuhrer, and apparently she spills info easy, so if we let your boss kill her we’ll lose a valuable source.”

Kennick was nodding sagely. “Ziren mentioned that. At first I thought we were all workin’ for the Lumen. But, Kajack, Ziren says Castra’s a monster. A couple years of spyin’ on her were too much, I guess, and Ziren says no information is worth the violence of lettin’ her live.”

“Oh,” said Kajack, who privately understood with chilling clarity the desire to assassinate the Duchess. “But what about the violence of letting her die?”

“Hey, I ain’t arguin’ with you, Kajack. This is all over my head. It’s just a job to me.”

“If you need money, you don’t have to work for an assassin,” he told her. “You can turn on them! You can help us!”

Kennick shrugged one shoulder. _“You_ don’t have to work for the _Lumen,”_ she said frankly. “You can turn on them and help _me._ See, it ain’t so easy, is it? You can never ‘just.’”

Kajack opened his mouth.

“Anyway,” said Kennick, nudging his feet into movement again with the toe of her sandal, “I ain’t just doin’ this for me. Shelby’s waitin’ on my paycheck back home.”

“You’re still with Shelby?” His heart seized. Shelby River! A name that hadn’t entered his mind in years!

Kennick laughed self-consciously. “Well, we’re not _together_ together anymore, but yeah, we’re roommates. I write ’em letters every so often. We split up ’bout two months ago, for good, after bein’ off n’ on for years.”

“Oh, my gosh.” The song came to an end. Kajack released Kennick’s warm hand. “I never even knew you two were dating.”

“Yeah,” said Kennick, smiling sadly. “You wouldn’t’ve.”

She studied him.

“I’m sorry, Kajack,” she said kindly. His heart dropped. But she went on: “I oughtn’tve made you work so hard to convince me. Tell you the truth, I don’t like my party leader. I think they’re a jerk. And I can’t say I’m too torn up at the thought of betrayin’ ’em.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You’re a peach, and I ain’t ever quittin’ BODE. If you want me, I’m yours.”

“For real?”

“Well,” she sighed. “You can kill people. And you can bring ’em back from the dead. But there ain’t no undoin’ the fact that they died. So I—think—that, given the choice, I’d rather err on the side that’s most reversible.”

Her eyes followed Kajack as he went grey and shrank back into his own frame.

“Don’t,” she told him flatly. “Don’t. You don’t need to. I ain’t scared. But I’m gonna tell you what me and Shelby did after.” She was talking quickly now, clearly more convinced with every word that Kajack was about to flee. “He’s in the field by my house. Ain’t no grave there, because it’s a field, not a graveyard. We raise corn and wheat each season for the community. It ain’t as creepy as it sounds,” she said defensively. “We buried him really deep. It just matters to do it right—to have somethin’ physical—a tool—a way to digest and shit out the grief.”

The reparation was poignant enough to make Kajack angry. He thought of Morgan’s bloody, spent body, entombed in a deep pit sparkling with ants and woodlice and hundreds of hungry worms while an unblinking crowd of Shirey’s curious country folk stood around and watched Kennick and Shelby grapple with spades. Or helped. His anger dissipated. He felt better when the image that came into his head was the townsfolk helping, even if they didn’t understand. And then suddenly it occurred to him how the situation might look to an outsider: a corpse, loved and carried for miles, all the life gone and no blame or resentment or even meaning left, and only one job to do. He felt shame. He thought on death. He absorbed the simple reality that Kennick and Shelby were, even years later, eating the wheat and the corn.

“Thank you,” he said to her.

Kennick smiled. “So, what are we doin’? I ain’t never worked for a terrorist organization before. There some secret handshake I oughta know?”

Luma interjected: “Cut to the chase. Ask if your friend can lead us to Ziren.” Kajack obliged.

Kennick’s mouth twisted. “See, the way this was supposed to work was I was gonna lead this Castra woman away from witnesses. However I do that is up to me. I was thinkin’ of settin’ off the fire alarm and trippin’ her before she could run out, but I figure I could also coax her around that divider.” She motioned to a conveniently-placed wide lattice partition on the roof on the opposite side of the tank. “Either way, if I don’t get her away from the crowd, my boss will know I’m betrayin’ ’em and they won’t make a move. Kajack, are y’all plannin’ to _kill_ Ziren?”

Kretz scrabbled for his mic and barked into it, “Say no.”

Kajack hesitated.

“Um, no, I don’t think so. Unless we have to,” he said, wincing. “Kennick, if you lure her away like you planned, then you won’t betray anyone, and now that _I_ know, my squad can react and jump in before she gets hurt. Is that anything?”

“Sounds fine,” said Kennick richly. “Let’s mingle a bit first and not look so obvious about it.” Kajack grinned wide and extended his arm like a gentleman. Kennick placed her hand into the crook of his elbow, delicately, like a lady.

Lord Anaris had not been exaggerating the turbulence of a rich-people party. It wasn’t as if the lords and ladies at the aquarium were moshing and raving, but the spirit of indulgence was creeping in thicker the longer the night went. One man was lovingly stroking a pipe as he suckled its faintly glowing smoke. A few women in their forties or fifties were lolling around the roof with dopey smiles. Kajack watched a girl no older than himself play with a tiny, womb-wet, squirming puppy, and a cryptic chill went down his spine. Beneath the lazy puff of wealth was the constant muttered refrain in his earpiece: “Parisa thinks she saw something downstairs. She’s going down to check it out.” “Clear. Should be fine. We’re waiting until Kajack’s friend triggers the attack.”

A tall human man in a rich red cloak and a single conspicuous red glove was bopping his head to the music. Kajack checked his line of sight. He was watching the Duchess. Kajack steered himself and Kennick a couple degrees over and flicked his ear to get Bart’s attention. Bart didn’t even look at him, but his finger twitched a hello. Kajack set a course for Anaris, whose company in Zhara’s steely glare had bought him a five-foot radius of relative peace.

Luma sauntered up to Anaris from the other side. “Excuse me. Duke Lausine Darium,” they said in a cool, flat voice, shaking his hand. “I have no doubt we have already encountered each other at one event or another. Tonight I am accompanied by the Lady Parisa Villamorta, who is, ah, currently preoccupied.” They winked at Kajack.

Clothing made a difference. It was such an immediate visual indicator of wealth and status that it could disguise features better than makeup. With luck and the cover of night—poorer for humans than for elves and half-elves—they were hoping no one would connect the righteous blue-haired elf that had attacked the estate to the decorous blue-haired elf attending the Ambassador. Zhara narrowed his eyes at them but said nothing.

“Wonderful to see you again, Your Grace,” said Anaris smoothly. “Your reputation precedes you. Ah, perfect timing. I don’t suppose you have met my son, Kajack?”

As far as clothing went, Kajack had been dressed in possibly the most opulent example he’d ever seen: another tight doublet shirt—eggshell again, with a subtle black trim that went all the way around and highlighted the buttons—overlaid with an eggshell vest and an ornate tailed eggshell dress coat. His pants matched. His shoes were glossy and heeled. His gloves fit to his hand like the popular simile. It wasn’t nearly as garish as Luma’s startling flashy black suit, which, for Kajack, was the height of envy, nor was it fun in the least; he hated the color, the pearls across the shoulder that invoked the look of a military epaulette, and the million tiny embroidered lace details in the fabric because all it said about him was that he was _rich_ and _boring._ To cap it all off, the Duchess had talked Anaris into a pair of tiny pearl earrings, which he, grittingly, didn’t hate.

Luma’s mouth quirked. “No, to my great misfortune. It is a pleasure, sir. I have admired the _Molucella_ legacy for years, and I could search the world three times over before I found the likes of BODE again.” They bowed deeply and pressed a kiss to the back of Kajack’s glove. Kajack couldn’t stop the wide smile from breaking over his face.

“Wow, thank you!” he said warmly to his best-best-best friend. “It’s great to know _some_ people on the guest list can appreciate real art.”

Anaris watched, perplexed.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” said Kennick to Luma. She had released her tight two-handed grip on Kajack’s arm and was now grappling nervously as if trying to jauntily put her hands into a pair of pockets and could not find purchase on the smooth surface of her dress. “I just wanted to tell you that your girlfriend is awful pretty. I saw her earlier.”

Luma’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Their face did something complex and interesting. It was no secret that Parisa only begrudgingly got along with Luma. “Thank you,” they said at last. “I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment—”

“Abort mission!” Toulouse shouted over the comms. “The target has been compromised and is being taken toward the boardwalk! I repeat, the target is compromised!”

Kajack immediately whipped his head around. No, the Duchess was still standing there, chatting innocently with the other women and gesturing with her elegant hands, totally undisturbed!

“What the fuck?” he cried. Several guests gasped and looked around at him.

“It’s a trap,” Luma seethed. “One of them’s a decoy!”

Several things happened in sequence after that. Anaris, rolling the highest initiative, slapped an arm around Kajack’s shoulder and dug his nails into his throat. Luma turned, kneed a Keeper in the chin with a grisly CRACK, and snatched the decorative sword off the strap on his waist. Bart lit up his hands in a crackling flare of magic and ran for the Duchess; Kennick leapt back, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“My sword!” Anaris demanded, gripping Kajack’s throat so tight he couldn’t breathe. “My sword, now! Zhara, stand down. This is my fight.”  
  
Luma slashed at Anaris. “Let him go!”

Kajack squirmed and choked. Bart seized the Duchess in one round human hand and let off a warning blast of fire into the sky with the other. It hit the magical dome and rippled across its surface.

Anaris snatched a slender sword from Zhara’s hand and introduced it to Luma’s with a _clang._ “I don’t know who you are or what you want,” snarled Anaris, “but I can see that something’s going on, and _no one moves_ until it is explained to me. No!” he added sharply to a nearby Keeper, who had rushed forward to help. “I have it under control, you fool! Go arrest the bastard who put his hands on the Duchess, for goodness’ sake!”

Toulouse panted: “They’re dragging her onto a boat! We’re going after her. You said there’s a decoy Duchess, right, Luma? It could be a double bluff—don’t leave that one alone!”

Parisa reappeared. She stormed up the stairs, hiking her dress up above her ankles, and swirled her hand around in one decisive motion. The Duchess’s eyes visibly glazed over. She stopped struggling against Bart and lurched toward Parisa. Kajack gasped. Either Parisa was packing some serious sorcerous heat, or she’d burned a scroll for that Dominate Person spell. He felt another surge of respect.

“I’ve _got_ her, Bart,” Parisa snarled impatiently. “Go!”

“But—”

Her eyes flashed. “I have seniority over you all and I am _telling you,_ the rest of your hopeless squad will need all the help they can get! I’ll guard this Duchess and make sure no harm comes to her. Go!”

“Can’t you see I’m _trying?”_ Kajack screeched, harried. He thrashed again against Anaris’s arm. Luma and Anaris, having tested each other’s blades, were sparring now, and the slithering clash of swords was happening no more than a foot away from his face. He kept tripping over his own feet as Anaris yanked him this way and that.

“Wow, you really are pathetic! Are you a bard or _not?”_

“Oh, right,” he panted. He wormed his hand up through the gap between his chest and Anaris’s steely arm, swirled forth the glittering pink, and cast Vicious Mockery on Anaris. “Hey, idiot, your stupid perfume smells like how my shit smelled after I ate all those tulips,” he snapped. 

“Ah!” Anaris jerked from the emotional assault and stepped back. Kajack slithered out from under his arm and ducked between two encroaching Keepers. Bart elbowed a Keeper over the side of the roof and clattered down the stairs after him.

“We left Luma—” Kajack cried.

Bart winced. He waved a hand over himself and muttered an incantation. The illusion faded. His horns crept through his hair; his skin seeped with brilliant red.

They scrambled through the clear aquarium tunnel. Kajack looked up and caught a glimpse of a mesmerizing blue animal, enormous, flat like a pancake and with fins like wings. Drifting around it was a cloud of softly glowing insect-like white fish. Against its deep-blue body, they looked like stars.

“What is _that?”_ Kajack said.

Bart squinted. “Looks like a Melothaema blue manta ray.”

“Oh my gosh, how the heck do you even know that?”

Bart raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. “I… read?”

They reached the foyer and blasted past the single shouting guard and out the door. The spitting rain had cleared up. The night was softly glittering, the way nights do.

Kajack collided face-first with Viridios’s elbow. “Ow!”

The Delta squad, Kretz, Toulouse, and Viridios were clustered on the stairs outside the aquarium, faces and swords drawn. Viridios grabbed Bart and Kajack. “You’re okay!” He fiercely hugged them. He was boiling hot and steaming with sweat. Bart stood stock-still. “We were about to run up there and rescue you! Sounds like y’all were havin’ a little trouble gettin’ outta that there party. Bad news. Their boat already launched. We lost her.”

“Oh, forget that!” cried Kajack, wrestling out of Viridios’s grip. “We have a boat, too! Let’s go after them, let’s _go!”_

Kretz didn’t say no. “It’s a houseboat, Kajack. It can’t exactly pick up speed.”

Kajack bit his lip hard. A frustrated gloom settled over him. He looked at the horizon and just barely made out the shape of a familiar schooner advancing against the mist.

Reignited, he faced the rest of the Delta squad. “Hey, do you guys want to steal and commandeer a sailboat with me?” he said.

“No!” shouted one of them.


	34. Duel

Rarely challenged these days by anyone but the naive and the gutsy, Lord Anaris hadn’t faced a worthy opponent in over five years. A squad of Keepers prowled around the tank, marshaling the crowd and looking on in clear dismay, as every beat of Luma and Anaris’s deadly dance produced another ringing peal of metal.

There was a gasp from the guests. A shower of sparks spattered the darkened roof. Luma was trying a particularly complex riposte called the  _ Strangling Rejoinder,  _ which was a precise flurry of defensive attacks that targeted the victim’s throat and forced them to counter by raising their sword to the level of their face. Anaris knew this one, however, and ducked, slashing simultaneously at Luma’s legs. Luma jumped high and avoided the sword as it narrowly missed kneecapping them. They landed elegantly, just out of reach, breathing rapidly through their nose.

“You don’t scare me, little elf,” Anaris sneered, stalking around in a wide circle. “In a moment I’ll have you over with, and then I’ll find out where your black-haired friend took the Duchess Ati.”

It had happened while Bart and Kajack were busy escaping. Parisa had encircled herself and the Duchess with a ring of fire so blisteringly hot the Keepers had been forced to retreat a dozen feet just to keep their uniforms from alighting. A second later, she had cast Greater Invisibility on herself and her Dominated charge. It was anyone’s guess where the two of them were hiding now. Ten or fifteen Keepers had been dispatched to search the aquarium.

Luma’s eyebrow flickered up. Their eyes were cold and steady. “Would you believe me if I told you we are trying to save her life?”

Anaris held up a finger. He crossed the roof and, without taking his eyes off his opponent, climbed up onto the edge of the low fence surrounding the open tank. Then he flourished his sword and resumed his fencer’s poise.

“Let’s not be a fool,” he purred, strolling along the fence and tracing Luma’s blade with his own. “I’ll confess, you are a natural. Far better than I expected. But I urge you to lay down your weapon before someone gets hurt.”

Luma was thinking. From what they had gathered over the earpiece and from Kajack’s own analysis, the Lord, for all his blustering about wanting to reconnect, still felt wounded by the Duchess. A real gentleman would stop the fight and join the search for the kidnapped woman. Either Lord Anaris was addicted to the thrill of battle—not unlikely—or he was more eager than he let on to buy time for the mysterious stranger who had carted away his murderous ex. Luma quietly resolved to draw out the fight until one of them emerged a victor.

“Overconfidence is a killer, Mr. Anaris,” they said coolly. “Beware the unstable ground of pride, or you might… just… fall.”

They lunged. Their other hand flew out behind them and caught their balance perfectly, like the tail of an eagle; Anaris swept their sword aside, barely wobbling on the edge of the fence. “Why don’t we make things a little more interesting?” he offered. “Anything you care to wager?”

“No.” Luma stalked around the fence like a dog pacing a treed cat. “I don’t intend to lose.”

“Perhaps if I offered our dear Kajack’s freedom.”   
  
Luma chuckled low. “Mr. Anaris! You can’t offer what you’ve already lost.”

“You think so? He came back to me before. I have no doubt he will again.”

Luma darted forward, crouched, and leapt onto the fence, catching their balance and immediately engaging Anaris in a hail of strikes. He countered them, weaving his feet backward across the fence in a sideways grapevine as he gave ground, but his face had taken on the sheen of concentration: this elf was putting up a pretty good show. He tossed his sword to his other hand and began a  _ Hailstorm.  _ It was a purely offensive but intentionally nonlethal attack designed to cut the opponent’s arms to ribbons, weakening their dexterity, but it was a risky drain on stamina and easily countered if anticipated. Anaris was counting on Luma not expecting a wild, frenzied attack on such a narrow ledge. He lunged.

_ Aha, he’s going for a Hailstorm,  _ Luma thought. It was a simple attack with a simple defense. They seized the blade of their sword with their other hand as if holding a dowel out in front of them, pulled their elbows in tight toward their body, and slammed headlong against Anaris’s rapier.

The fence had not been constructed to bear the weight of two fully-grown adults. It snapped. Anaris cried out, lost his footing, and fell, landing hard on his tailbone on the edge of the roof. Broken shards of glossy wood splashed into the depths of the tank and disappeared.

Luma sprang from the fence and bore down on their prey.

Anaris flung out a foot. One of his kicks connected, and the sword clattered out of Luma’s grip, spun across the slick roof, and came to rest at the foot of the tall woman in the yellow dress. Now Luma was vulnerable.

“Kajack told us a little bit about you and the Duchess,” they spat, scrambling back. Anaris crawled after them. “I find it—oof!  _ Interesting  _ that you have chosen to waste your time on me.”

It was a wrestling match. Luma was practiced and quick, but Anaris had the advantage of raw strength. He drove them to the ground and kneed them hard in the small of their back. Luma grunted. Anaris grabbed them by the back of their collar and dragged them, prone, across the roof, to the gap in the fence; there, he dropped them in the pile of splintered wood and squatted next to them. Luma spat into the rippling tank and fought to regain their strength. Anaris held them down remorselessly.

“Oh, I want what I want,” Anaris murmured at last. “And I am a forgiving man. But I cannot say I’m not tempted by the thought of a third party simply… erasing my problems.”

It occurred to Luma. “I see. You actually want us to kill her.”

“I’m an opportunist,” Anaris hissed. He shoved Luma’s face to the surface of the water. “Take this as a lesson, Your Grace. You only have to lay down with dogs for as long as it takes for a wolf to come a-hunting.”

Luma’s startled breath bubbled against the water. Anaris’s hand was wrapped around the back of their neck, and the pose wasn’t right to throw him off, but their legs were free—they could kick—and they suspected that Anaris was more interested in dominating them in front of the crowd than drowning them. Their face was submerged about an inch in the tank. Faintly, through the green, murky water, they caught movement.

The shark was rising.

It glided upward. Its red mouth split and opened wide, wider than a human being, wider than a front door. Its gums were spined with a thousand gory teeth, each improbably disproportionate in size, and it was spinning as it rose, a silent killer with fat, bulbous eyes glistering black on either side of its head.

Luma’s eyes bulged out.

Until that moment, they hadn’t been afraid. They hardly thought about death as an inexorable and present threat and, as a rule, took faith in the belief that their skill and their body could get them out of anything alive purely by virtue of the fact that they hadn’t died yet. That small word—yet—was just enough to light up their brain with horror. Even one tooth in that gaping hole measured the length of Luma’s face.

Thrusting their legs out behind them, Luma scrabbled to regain their footing on the roof. The toe of their boot caught between tiles and provided them with just enough traction to roll in Anaris’s grip and flip him onto his back. His head cracked against the floor so loudly it echoed. Luma, agitated now, somersaulted backward away from the water.

But the Daughter of Talu was not rising to bite Luma’s head off.

It hadn’t even noticed them, which could be blamed on any number of factors: the massive size of the creature, the comparatively diminutive size of Luma’s head, the fact that Mr. David Cassio Milton had ensured his prize jewel was well fed before exposing it to the bacchanalian populace, or the reality that Luma’s face had disturbed the water no more than a dragonfly would. What the shark was actually doing was breaching. It broke the surface and rocketed up into the sky with the precision of a spear, skimming the protective magical dome with its snout and spraying the roof with a glittering mist. The tip of its tail nearly left the water on the other end. It had never before performed such a high leap. The audience gasped and applauded.

With a mighty groan, the shark slammed back into the tank. An immense wave rolled up over the edge and gushed across the roof in all directions, soaking ladies’ skirts up to the thigh. Gentlemen braced against the railing as the torrent threatened to carry them over.

But Luma and Anaris, who were nearest, and neither on their feet, were swept up and borne across the roof by the shocking flood.

The crowd parted in alarm.

Into the railing they slammed! Luma saw stars as their temple hit the metal guardrail. 

Over the railing they went!

Anaris landed on his feet on a narrow wall-mounted pole. He wobbled wildly and swung his arms around for balance. It was a horizontal flagpole. Hanging from it was a rippling banner advertising the new exhibit. He had just stabilized himself when Luma tumbled past and seized the banner on their way down, unseating the flagpole again and jiggling it back and forth.

“Fuck!”

Anaris fell! He completed one full revolution in the air and landed hard on his feet on a decorative ledge fifteen feet below.

Luma had other things to worry about. Wheezing from the impact, they clung to the wet, cold, bunched-up fabric of the banner as if it were a rope, hugging it tight between their hands and knees. Anaris looked up at Luma, swore, and began to hobble away.

Shit.

Luma gasped and balled their fists tighter in the banner. The angle wasn’t right to leap to safety. It was more likely that they’d splat on the road below than land on the ledge.

“Excuse me! Kajack’s friend!” shouted a lovely voice from above. “Your sword!”

Luma looked up. The banner sagged dangerously. The woman in the yellow dress was leaning over the railing, extending the sword toward Luma.

“Thank you,” Luma replied.

“I can’t reach you! If I drop it, can you catch it?”   
  
“Most likely.”

“Oh, wait,” said the woman. She smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her free hand. “Ugh, Kennick, really! I ain’t been thinkin’ today. Sorry.”

She swirled her hand through the air in a circle, muttering, and a dim, muddy-golden glow encircled her wrist like a halo. A magical construct in the shape of a hand phased into being one finger at a time, flexed, and seized the sword.

“Here you go.”

The Mage Hand swung down and hung patiently in the air beside Luma, brandishing the sword at them hilt-first.

Luma took the sword. This was bizarre. Finally, Kajack’s unwavering conviction that one of his old fans would someday come through on a Lumen mission had borne fruit. “Thanks,” they said shortly. “I don’t suppose you’ve any other good ideas up your sleeve about how I can get down?”

She bit her lip. “Maybe I can find some rope around—”

CRACK!

The pole splintered. Luma dropped like a stone. The woman clapped her hands and shouted once; a gust of sweet-smelling wind encircled Luma, who was seized by an unnatural lightness and floated harmlessly to the road below.

“Or, y’know,” the woman offered lamely. “Feather Fall is always an option, too.”

Luma jerked a nod of thanks at the roof. They could barely make out their benefactor’s figure now for the fog layering the streets, but they thought the woman held up a thumbs-up in reply.

Anaris had vanished into the gloom. Luma took off down the road.

“Valentino…”

Wet or not, his footprints wouldn’t be easy to trace. It had been raining, and the municipal jumble of sodden tracks criss-crossing and doubling back obscured any individuality. Fortunately, halfway down the block, he had clearly skidded through a mud puddle, leaving obvious prints and a mildly shocked crowd of witnesses. A child could identify where he’d gone next. Luma followed him through a nearby cellar door into a musty basement.

“Valentino…”

Luma caught movement and instinctively flicked their blade up to meet it. The shadowy image shattered into a million pieces. It was a reflective cabinet door. Luma moved on.

The prints wound through the winding maze of barrels and crates to an open door on the other side of the cellar. Luma emerged into a moonlit flower garden. Anaris was crouched on top of an elaborate stone post like a gargoyle, eyes glittering shockingly pale.

Had Luma been remotely familiar with the layout of Bellichi, they may have recognized, as we do, the back door of Zhara and Luba Zen’s house.

“Ready to resume?” Luma offered.   
  
Anaris pursed his lips into a coy smile. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in a long time. How can I say no?”

He pounced. Luma slapped their blade against his with a ringing crash so loud an owl startled off its perch in a nearby apple tree and flapped away, hooting rudely. Anaris had abandoned all decorum and was slashing wildly in a bestial paroxysm. It was all Luma could do to meet and repel his attacks.

“I will break you,” Anaris murmured from time to time, his cool voice unbroken even in his fever.

“I’m sure you would, if you could,” Luma panted. “I’m almost offended that you still seem to think you can best me.”

A tiny glittering object on the ground caught their eye. It had been partially stamped into the earth in the heel of a footprint. Luma jerked up and countered Anaris’s attack, but even as they danced across the soft, weedy soil, their gaze kept darting back to the dimple of crushed earth.

It was probably just a piece of trash. A gum wrapper.

Quick as a diving bird, they stabbed their sword into the dirt and uprooted the tiny thing. They flung it high off their sword, lanced Anaris in the chest—he hopped back—and caught the earth-encrusted object as it fell in the interval.

They recognized it instantly by feel, not by sight. It was Kajack’s bracelet! Yes, the tiny cheap charm bracelet they themself had crafted by hand for his birthday, and that he’d admitted he had lost!

Luma’s blood was shining.

In quick succession, they performed a  _ Carousel— _ three sweeping spinning blows that built in power successively—and followed it up with a two-handed diagonal strike, cleaving a gash in Anaris’s shoulder. He bellowed in pain and instinctively gripped the wound. Luma took the opening and went to stab him again. It was a feint! Suddenly his sword was skimming through the air toward Luma’s exposed cheek! They acted on impulse, dodged, and brutally kicked Anaris in the gut.

His nostrils flared. “Ow!” he complained, enraged, clutching his stomach. He sounded bizarrely like Kajack. “You call that swordsmanship?”

“Your strength is flagging, Mr. Anaris.”

“So’s yours.” He stood tall. “Let’s finish this.” But his sword hand shook. Luma lunged.

In seconds they had him on the ground and swordless. They took the single dagger they’d smuggled into the party out of their heel and nudged away the protective silk sheath. Anaris jerked and fought against Luma’s body weight, but he was too weakened now to push their knees off the crooks of his elbows. Luma flicked the point of the dagger against Anaris’s ribcage.

“I win,” they said coldly. “Submit.”

His throat bobbed, slick and shiny with sweat.

“Stop, stop, stop fighting, STOP!” cried a hysterical voice.

A dozen Keepers swarmed into the yard. Two of them went for Anaris and pulled him to his feet. Another grabbed Luma by the collar and hauled them up. Luma shook him off; immediately, the rest of the Keepers, none of whom seemed to want to get too close, leveled a half-circle fan of broadswords at their face.

“Drop your weapon!” a Keeper commanded.

Luma released their grip on both sword and dagger and stepped back, palms raised.

“Here is your sword, milord,” said the guard with the shaking voice. Anaris accepted his rapier and looked it over impassively. “Are you injured? Should we send for a medic?”

Anaris ignored him completely and looked around the squad of Keepers. Luma identified a flicker of disappointment on his face. “Oh, make it fair,” he cooed. “All of you, step back, and return my opponent their blade. I won’t finish this fight if it’s not fair.”

“We could also just arrest them, milord,” said the guard, panicked now. “They match the description of one of the escaped prisoners we were supposed to execute in the Capitol earlier this week!”

Anaris’s eyes traced Luma’s silhouette. He smiled wide—the comfortable smile of a man who can afford to play the dissatisfied customer—and said, “As a Lord of Bellichi and surrounding counties, and an active member of the municipal board of directors, I hereby pardon this individual on behalf of my estate. I won’t have such a deliciously skilled duelist executed before I’m done with them. Their blade.” He paused, then added silkily, “I want to finish this.”

Luma took stock. Kettled in by Keepers, diminished from the battle, and faced down by a wealthy madman who had just sprung up from defeat with twice the energy as before, the best they could hope for was to mortally wound him in a single blow and not get arrested. The chance of pulling off both tricks was thinning. There was nothing to be gained here.

They turned and ran.

“Stop them!”

The only route out of the garden was through the adjoining townhouse. The door wasn’t locked, which didn’t altogether surprise Luma; the Masked Moonflower had made a few crawls through Bellichi in their zenith and had found its “safe” neighborhoods just as welcoming back then. They kicked the door shut behind them and flipped the safety lock. For a few beats, the world rang with the colorless, empty hush of silence.

Luma stalked into the dark, unfamiliar kitchen.

“Castra?”

Luma nearly leapt twenty feet in the air. The voice belonged to a large Rasputin human woman who was currently blocking the only exit. She was unarmed. Her eyes were trailing around the dark corners of the kitchen, sightless; Luma detected fear in her voice. They had the advantage. They looked around the clean, burnished kitchen and guessed that if they moved quietly enough, they could slip past her.

“Bring Keepers down on me, do you?” the woman barked. “Like my family has not enough to worry about?”

As Luma darted forward, the woman’s arm flashed out and slammed into their gut with unimaginable force.

“Oof!” Luma groaned. For a second they swore they’d been chopped in half. This was not the time for grace, so they backed away and hefted themself up onto the breakfast bar, narrowly avoiding rattling every hanging pot and pan on their way to higher ground.

“I am going to fucking get you,” the woman threatened.

Luma decided that the only way out of this was to lure the woman away from the door. “Yeah?” they said roughly, tensing their legs in their crouch on the counter. “Come and get me, then!”

With a cry, the woman threw herself toward the noise. Luma leapfrogged over her head and hit the linoleum already running. They blasted through the front door.

Where to now? Lamps were flickering to life all around them.

“Luma! This way!” Bart’s Thaumaturgy-enhanced voice boomed across the street. “Run for the boat!”

Luma executed a ninety-degree hard left turn that nearly sent their feet skidding out from under them and blasted toward the beach.

The schooner was sixty feet away. Luma vaulted the low metal grate separating the cement from the sand and sprinted so fast across the deserted shore they felt like their legs were blurring. The salty wind whipped their face. It was tough to run on loose dry sand, tougher still in formalwear; but the ground was firming up the closer they got to the water, and then stability surfaced in the form of a half-buried ancient wooden dock that began to slowly emerge beneath their feet from the grey expanse like a deliberate pathway. The flock of Keepers had reappeared at their heels.

The boat was already pulling out to sea. Luma realized grimly what they’d have to do even as they pounded down the molding, splintered dock.

“Jump!”

Though they would omit it from their recap later on, Luma put every ounce of their strength into that leap. Marlon and Kajack, as one, reached pleadingly out over the side of the boat. Time slowed. The gap between the dock and the ship was widening faster than the gap between the ship and Luma was shrinking. They thought,  _ I’m not going to make it, _ and then there was an ominous painful click in their bad knee and they crashed full-speed, end over end, into the deck of the  _ Unity  _ with such force that for a moment they were willing to believe that the boat itself had reached out and mangled them.

A couple of seconds passed. Luma lay very still, glassy-eyed.

The stars gleamed peacefully.

It was Marlon who finally helped them to their feet. Kajack was too busy slinging taunts at the uncomfortable pileup of annoyed and flustered Keepers at the end of the dock.

“Yeah, you freaking  _ thought!  _ Maybe try running faster next time!”

Luma dusted themself off and caught their breath. The rest of the Delta squad was scrambling all over the ship, tying knots, adjusting the sails, ducking and leaping around the various hazards; the boom was affixed, but there were slippery puddles of blood welling around the deck and at least one loose barrel. Kretz was wearing a captain’s hat. Bart waved down from the crow’s nest and brandished a small brass telescope. Six human men were lashed to the mast with sturdy rope, all together, like a chain of paper dolls, and the minotaur was unconscious at the bow, tightly bound.

Kajack squealed and hurled himself at Luma with such force that they staggered back a few steps. He buried his head in their shoulder and squeezed his bony limbs around their midsection tight enough to crack their back and knock the breath out of their body.

“Luma!” he crowed. “You made it back to me!”

Luma laced their arms behind his spine and, hesitantly, allowed their cheek to sink and rest on the top of his head.

After a minute they said, “Oh, Kajack. I’ve got something for you.”

He hopped back and clapped his hands, delighted. His eyes were glowing. “Yeah, dummy! You, alive! That’s all I need!”

Luma held out the bracelet and saw the infinite. It was like he had smelled it on them when they first plowed into the deck. He took the character of a starling and had it strung on his wrist so quick he may as well have punched his hand through it. Consciousness resumed. He looked at Luma unblinkingly, hovering with tears.

What could be said? The boy had been through hell. His dark eyes went through a sudden wrathful evolution before settling into the bright affectation of gratitude and peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Akira a MILLION times over for helping me with Luma characterization!  
> \- YOU. For tolerating an entirely self-indulgent duel chapter.


	35. Full Throttle

Boats are slow. The unit sailors use to measure speed on the water is the ever-confounding knot instead of the mile per hour expressly because a sailor trying to impress you can confuse you by naming absolutely any number of knots. You will not know the difference. Kajack certainly didn’t, not up until he was engaged in—not his first, but his first on the water—“high-speed” boat chase.

The _Unity_ really was a fast boat. It was the fastest schooner in Anaris’s fleet. It was also so teeth-grindingly slow that its crew had more than enough time to listen to Luma’s account of the duel with Anaris and then regale Luma in turn with the minutiae of stealing the _Unity_ before the boat sailing away with the second Duchess even widened from a single speck on the horizon. They were gaining on it.

“I’ve seen that boat before,” said Kajack, with the confidence of a man who has only ever seen a few boats. “That’s the same one that nearly sunk me and Hugearmious over there—” He jabbed a finger at the unconscious minotaur by the helm—“on the  _ Lady Wei.  _ It’s a Q’Ravi pirate ship.”

Smolls held out a long-clawed paw to Bart, who looked confused and took it. “The telescope?” Smolls prompted. Bart’s forehead cleared. He hastily pulled out the little brass telescope and handed it over.

Smolls peered through it.

“I can see the word _ ‘Nine Hells’  _ written on the side,” he said roundly. “There’s a human woman on the deck. It’s the Duchess! She’s still alive!”

“Great!”

But there was really nothing practical they could do about the revelation, so after an expectant pause and the requisite exchange of telescope between hands, the current crew of the  _ Unity  _ digested the fact and moved on.

Kajack voiced another concern: though it hadn’t occurred to him when the Delta squad first dropped the profile of the spy they were chasing, he had heard the name Zen before.

“We have more important things to worry about than gossiping over who’s who,” said Kretz, but he looked doubtful. “Look, if Ziren is related to your man Zhara, then it makes no sense why they had to mug you for information in that alleyway yesterday, Kajack. They could’ve just gone to Anaris’s right-hand man.”

Kajack slumped back, looking more disgruntled about the added layer of mystery than he actually felt. He was not a cynic. He liked enigmas. One axiomatic example was Marlon, who walked around quiet and wide-eyed like a walking flag of his literally militaristic education but could at a single glance be released into a chattering, bubbly tree-hugger.

Kretz stood abruptly. “We’re getting close.” They were. Even without the telescope, Kajack could just make out the detail on the hull if he squinted. Dark figures were racing around the ship, barely visible against the deepening horizon, which, for all the shattered filaments of Lulara that speckled the sky, still possessed the pale overlay of turquoise.

“Should I load the cannons, sir?” asked First Mate Larkren.

“Not yet. We might have to consider the mark compromised as a source of information after this, but our orders are to keep her alive. And remember, if we can avoid it, we don’t want to kill the spy.”

“I think morally speaking it’s okay if the Duchess dies,” said Kajack, thinking about the more questionable things she had said about classism and personal ethics.

Kretz’s lips thinned out. “Thanks, Kajack, I will definitely take your unsolicited judgement call into account as I make my decisions. Marlon—” Marlon leapt up. “Get up to the crow’s nest and prepare to fire non-lethally.”

“Shoulders! Got it!”

“Toulouse, Viridios!” Toulouse was at the helm; Viridios was perched atop a stack of barrels at the stern like an errant, ungrounded lightning rod. Both jumped to attention. “I need you to carry the prisoners below decks and get them out of the way of any spells or arrows.” Viridios leapt with more grace than a man of his juicy stature should ever have been allowed and landed softly on the deck. “Smolls, you’re with them for now, but be ready to fight.” Smolls nodded smartly and retrieved two of the squirming figures tied to the mast. “Bart, Luma, Larkren: prepare to board!”

It certainly felt like years had passed since Kajack had fought alongside the rest of the Delta squad. The  _ Unity  _ foamed with eerie activity that would have had anyone unenlightened of the squad rhythm, say, Kennick, feeling out of place, but not Kajack, who had been with them from the young and uncertain days on the Keeper training ground where all of them, with eyes like metal, had thrashed hatefully against names like Jocifer and Ernest; nor the Green Sage, who had purportedly witnessed this same clumsy hive pulling together into a whole for thousands upon thousands of years. He loved to look at them: their sweat, their set jaws, their borrowed weapons swinging loosely at their sides as they stalked the deck. He could not help noticing the omitted name.

“You forgot about me,” he said sweetly. He tugged at Kretz’s sleeve as Kretz stomped by. “Hey, I want something to do!”

“I didn’t forget. You’re technically a civilian on this mission and I have no right to lead you into battle.”

“I’m a  _ what?  _ Excuse me! I didn’t get the Lumen symbol tattooed on my ribs for nothing—”

Kretz shook him off. “When Gwen assigned the mission, you were compromised. Until and unless she contacts us and amends her orders to include you, and you accept, the most you are in practice is a Lumen operative. You are under no obligation to engage in a mission you were never assigned to. Now, you’ve been participating in the mission up until now of your own free will, which I appreciate, but I’d be violating code if I ordered you to fight.”

“So what you’re saying right now is that you can’t tell me what to do,” said Kajack craftily.

Kretz blanched. “I would  _ not  _ say that. I’m still your general. I can give you commands unrelated to the mission.”

“You can’t have it both ways, old man!”

“Well, if you’d like an order, here’s the best I can do for you: go below with Smolls and stay out of trouble.”

Spring-loaded and more than willing to roll some heads, Kajack took exception to the order, but not much. His muscles were tight and cold from sitting around on a misty deck for half an hour. He followed Viridios and Toulouse down the steps as they brought the dead weight of the enormous, unconscious minotaur into the hold. The smoky air floated with the acrid, sickly smell of candle wax, which Kajack connected immediately to his memory of the ride across the bay. He even recognized the dark corner and the low stool where he and Zhara had spent the trip. He darted over and plopped down at once.

Smolls was already sitting cross-legged and wrapping in linen the injured upper arm of an angry, gagged, squirming deckhand. He looked up and smiled toothily at Kajack. “Kajack, aren’t you going to fight anyway?”

Quintessentially, he was pleasant, teeth or not, with a long, soft snout capped with a round and pleasant nose; big warm hands, gentle ears, and vivid eyes looking out from the vast swath of rich orange-brown fur that circled his head. Kajack had seen other bugbears—at least one—who possessed a mien so approachable, but it must not, he thought, be common; like goblins, bugbears were said to be scary. He had no inner thrust to examine this thought. “Hmm, probably,” he sighed. He kicked his feet. “But I feel, I don’t know,  _ weird _ about protecting this lady.”

Smolls made a noncommittal noise.

Kajack rolled his eyes around and looked at Smolls bleakly. “You heard her over the spell phone. She’s even worse than my dad. At least my dad’s just sexist and classist.  _ She  _ was straight-up ready to kill! I could see it in her eyes.”

“It might not be the actual Duchess,” Smolls pointed out fairly, lacing up the bandage. “Kajack, remember, one of them is fake. The Duchess on that boat could be anyone, disguised with magic.”

“Yeah, but depending on their motive…” Kajack gloomily hunched forward and balanced his chin on his laced fingers. The sloshing echo of water all around was having a hypnotic effect on him. “Like, is this mission a good thing, or is it, y’know, corrupt? Are we the good guys here?” He hugged himself through his tight dress shirt. “If we stop the spy like Gwen wants, then the Duchess lives. She’s a bad person with the  _ weirdest,  _ most intolerant values  _ ever. _ I mean, what are you supposed to do, like, ethically? Which one’s worse: saving a bad person’s life even if it means vulnerable people will get hurt, or letting them die?”

Smolls got an awfully careful look on his face. His gentle green eyes had become affixed on a point just past Kajack’s shoulder, and his tongue hung between his teeth like a flag. For a moment he looked like he was about to crack a radiant sort of tension, but all he said was, “You still don’t think it’s Monty on that boat, eh?”

The Delta squad and company had spent ten minutes of the chase rigorously dissecting the various parties who could have duplicated the Duchess so perfectly. It could have been anyone. Even a low-level wizard could pull off a flawless impersonation with a good illusion spell.

“No,” said Kajack firmly. “Monty knows her mom is a dirtbag. Look, even if we assume they somehow knew in advance that they’d need a decoy, it makes no sense! I don’t care what the Duchess threatened her with, I don’t think anyone could bully the kid into disguising herself as her own mom. She wouldn’t even let my dad order her to look human because she saw it as, like, a violation of her tiefling identity, so why would she give ground now?”

“She’s young,” said Smolls. And no more.

Smolls was one of the very few people to whom Kajack listened out of common sense and not esteem or personal liking. “Whaddaya mean?”

“It’s her biological mother, yes?” He stood with some difficulty, reaching for a gilded beam to support himself. The captive deckhand with the arm injury made a muffled, annoyed grunt. “You might think you have the whole image of a person, but who one  _ is _ depends on the situation and the people in it. It may be that the girl has seen… depth, the capacity for change, in the Duchess.” Smolls crossed his large, soft arms over his belly and looked curiously at Kajack. “If it is her,” he allowed. “If she had forewarning somehow. It’s not that strange, hating one’s family and still not wanting them to die, Kajack.”

Kajack thought about this. “What if you did…?” he said tentatively.

Viridios and Toulouse, the latter of whom was now squinting around a reddened, bruising eye, came down the steps again, this time with a pair of trussed-up sailors slung around their shoulders.

“Oh my gosh, has it already started?” Kajack cried, leaping to his feet. “Your eye, Toulouse! Injured is  _ not  _ a good look on you!”

Toulouse flashed a pointy grin. “Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. It was just a little accident with the bindings on this sailor. He must be good with knots—he untied himself with just one hand! Which was the same hand he, erm, used to blast me in the face when I went to get him. I’m sure I’ll be okay. Luma was there to… talk him down.” He grimaced and jostled the unconscious man, whose forehead was still dribbling hotly. “Anyway, from what I saw, it looks like we’ll be close enough to board in about five minutes, so get ready!”

A perturbing thought crossed Kajack’s mind. He looked uneasily at the bloodied sailor as Toulouse carefully disentangled him and arranged him in a seated slump. He was a pale, freckled human man with clear fingernails and a bright orange head of hair, now soiled by the brimming cut on his forehead; but, like Oliver, he was an employee of Anaris. There was no guarantee he had even met his boss. He was no evil minion. Kajack swallowed.

BOOM.

No sooner had he opened his mouth to speak than what was unmistakably a cannonball blasted with such force of sound Kajack swore he saw the support beams vibrate and, a split second later, impacted—and buckled inward—the interior wall of the hold with a mighty CRUNCH. Though the attack had not penetrated the hull, the ship sagged heavily to the side, and a tiny crack appeared around the edge of the excrescence, through which a paper-thin sheet of water began to hiss.

“Shit,” Kajack breathed.

“Out!” Viridios yelled. “Get ’em  _ out  _ of the hold and back on deck! Toulouse, help me fix this leak—”

There was a formidable groan and the crack snapped open into a wound. Water erupted into the hold with the anarchy of a cheap faucet and seeped across the polished wood with frightening rapidity. One tied-up sailor screamed and began to wriggle his body across the floor to the stairs; another, wedged in between two unconscious crewmen, pleaded, barely audible over the thundering torrent.

“All right! New plan!” Viridios hollered. “Untie a few! They work for us now! Smolls! Help me plug this thing! You two, grab a bucket!”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Toulouse screamed.

“Brothers in arms, Toulouse!” Kajack howled. “Let’s go!”

He had heard distant tales of mutinies and had somewhere gotten the impression that most crews were ultimately willing to follow whoever was most likely to keep them alive. This wasn’t unreasonably untrue, except for the fact that most sailing jobs were not nearly as whimsical, nor as dangerous, as fairy tales had led Kajack to believe. The bottom line was that when Kajack and Toulouse untied and enlisted the first handful of conscious deckhands, they obeyed and ran to carry their fellows out of the deluge without argument.

“Move!” Kajack demanded, slapping the strawberry-blonde youth awake. “Get up! What’s your name, sailor?”

“Fulbright,” the boy groaned.

“You try to attack Toulouse again and you deserve what you get, Fulbright!”

There was no rhythm to the pounding flood. It was a chaos of feet and buckets and foaming whiteness spraying unrepentantly into the heart of the ship. The water was inescapable; it soaked through Kajack’s fancy shirt and left him spluttering, and as the paranoia seeped through with the sea, he began to feel uncomfortably as if droplets of froth were clinging to the inside of his lungs. Hugearmious, facedown and hogtied in a swelling puddle, was about to risk drowning a second time. Kajack couldn’t even see Viridios or Smolls through the spume. He enlisted the trembling orange-haired man to help roll Hugearmious onto his back.

More cannonfire. He snatched a heavy iron bucket and dipped up a slopping scoop of icy water. Panting, he heaved it up the steps, but its contents went everywhere and he threw himself to the deck at the  _ whiz  _ of hostile crossbow bolts shrieking in and bouncing off the taut sails.

An ancient, half-forgotten song stirred inside him. Now, that was another bardic trick: he could buff the team and enhance their rolls through the power of music. Normally, Kajack limited his positive status effects to a single burst of magical influence, not a full track; but BODE was on his mind, and he was a histrionic little man with a desperate desire for his feelings to be worth it. He was haunted. “I’ve earned this,” he panted.

He gulped, stood up straight, and laced his voice with arcana for a very wet round of one of the band’s earliest, little-known singles:

_ Beep beep, your message goes after the tone! _

_ ’Cause I like to eat cake but I don’t like it alone _

_ I don’t like when my guys try to pick me up late _

_ I like your man _

_ Ooh, I like your man! _

_ Do you shiver and shake at the taste of my lips? _

_ Does it count if it’s only an indirect kiss? _

_ Oh, my perfume’s called ‘love’; is it working on you? _

_ I like your man! _

_ They call me a wildcat because I leave marks _

_ If you swim in the sea better watch for the sharks _

_ But I left you a gift and he’s covered in me _

_ If you swim with the sharks better watch for the sea _

“What are you trying to do,” Luma yelled, as Kajack ran past with another bucketful of water; “make them jealous?”

_ It’s not fair! I want war but you only make peace _

_ And a man with his assets is wasted on me _

_ But his pillow retains more than just my perfume _

_ And I like your man fine but he smells just like you _

_ Call the Keepers, but this is a victimless crime _

_ It’s too bad that your man got a piece of my mind _

_ We leave kisses like lovers divided by time _

_ Trace the ghost of my hand and you’ll know that you’re _

_ Mine! _

_ And I like your man! _

_ Do you shiver and shake at the taste of my lips? _

_ Does it count if it’s only an indirect kiss? _

_ Oh, my perfume’s called ‘love’; is it working on you? _

_ I like your man! _

_ Ooh, I like your man! _

His voice fell as he made his fifth trip up the stairs.

All the flurry of motion from earlier was gone. The world was frozen. Cannonfire had ceased and the wind had died. Luma’s eyes were narrow; Toulouse and Larkren were looking sharply at Kretz. No one moved.

“Huh,” said Kretz emphatically.

“Captain!” cried a sharp voice from the opposite ship. “Captain, stop! Lower the sails!”

The boats hung in the vast dark with the silence of two tense cats. Only a perilous ten feet separated the bow of the _Unity_ from the broadside of the _Nine Hells_ now, and the only sounds in the world were Viridios hammering boards over the leak below and the pattering of freed deckhands tapping up and down the steps to bail water.

Kajack darted to Kretz’s side. “What happened?” His cry echoed shockingly loud across the gap between the two boats—plateaued now—and he clapped his hands over his mouth and cringed.

“There’s a woman aboard the ship,” Kretz told him, tersely, in a low voice, “who says she knows me.”

“Oh,” said Kajack. “Um…”

“Steer us closer,” snapped the voice from across the water. It had dropped its panicked tone and resolved into a growly bark. “I know that ship. I’m boarding. Back off, Ziren.”

“Are you  _ completely _ out of your mind?” The second voice was a brisk, accented one that carried clearly across the water. Kajack recognized it as his mugger’s. “Captain, don’t listen to her! Their ship is practically underwater!”

“What are we going to do, cap’n?” asked Bart briskly.

Kretz looked flabbergasted. He pulled Bart and Kajack, the nearest of his squad, into a huddle. “I can’t put aside the possibility that this isn’t a trick. If this woman says she knows me, she knows me. Ziren never met me. They shouldn’t know my full name. This woman addressed me personally.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what the hell to think.”

Kajack got up on his tiptoes and scanned the deck of the  _ Nine Hells  _ for any sign of movement. A single glittering eye caught the light and vanished. He gasped and shrank back from the railing.

He turned back to Kretz. “Do you know who she is?”

“No!” said Kretz quickly.

Whispers broke out across the other ship. The moon, which was barely more than a thin, eerie sliver, cast a bizarre greenish tint on Kretz’s face. The same pallor made Bart look grey. Smolls and two deckhands, all three of them soaked to the skin, emerged from the hold, straining under the now-dripping bulk of Hugearmious, who had at last begun to stir and was blinking feebly.

It clicked for Kajack. “Kretz!” he hissed. He put a hand on Kretz’s wrist. “This lady knew your first name?”

“Yes,” Kretz whispered, bewildered.

“She doesn’t mean you! They all call the minotaur ‘Hugo.’ She thinks Hugearmious is coming after her!” The misty wind was like ice on Kajack’s chattering teeth. “He told me that the Beaks—that’s the crew of the  _ Nine Hells— _ make regular attacks on him and my dad’s fleet. Sir, I legit don’t think they even know we’re Lumen.”

Kretz’s grip tightened on his sword. “If that’s the case, I say we offer a trade.” His face went hard. “The minotaur for Ziren Zen.”


	36. An Eye for an Eye

A cold shock of prickling lightning raced down Kajack’s spinal column and settled in his toes. “Like, if they don’t accept the terms…?” Kajack’s tongue was dry. “You’re going to  _ kill  _ him?  _ Kill?” _

Kretz eyed him. “Gotta be honest, Kajack, I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, but as long as you’re asking, no. I said ‘offer’ a trade, not ‘make.’ If we negotiate, get ’em talking…” He paused and looked critically at the bobbing silhouette of the other boat. “I need someone who can roll high on Stealth, and—to use your parlance—I can’t help but figure the ‘twinks’ have the right build for a job like this. Luma’s a hard hitter, but they’re tired, and I need them at their best. If we swing you and Marlon across to the other ship while they’re busy arguing, can you promise to behave?”

“Ooh, look who suddenly wants to give the civilian orders—”

“Kajack!”

“Yeah!” Kajack rocked back on his heels. “I’ll be good.”

Kretz craned his neck up at the crow’s nest and twirled his first finger in a tight circle. Marlon descended rapidly, sinking down his knotted rope with easy, practiced fluency, hand over calloused hand; and, six feet from the deck, flipped from the rope with the grace of a gymnast. He landed square and stepped smartly up to Kajack’s side. “Yes!”

“You two. We’ll swing you across to the  _ Nine Hells. _ Recover the Duchess,” Kretz ordered, “and do whatever it takes to bring her back. That’s your priority.”

“Yessir!”

“What about the spy?” Kajack said sharply. “Isn’t the mission really about—”

“—preserving lives.” Kretz was rapidly signaling the rest of the squad. “If Ziren gets away, we go after them, but if we lose the Duchess, that’s it. Game over. Don’t forget, it’s not just about information, Kajack. She’s a highly regarded social figure. If an assassination attempt on her succeeds, that could turn into a witch hunt, fast, and you better believe the Fuhrer will use her death as an excuse to crack down even harder on the people who deserve it least.” Kajack sulked. “We’re not here to manipulate Gwen’s exact wording; we’re in it to maintain the status quo.” Kretz stopped and processed the words that were coming out of his mouth. He made a face. “Gershwin would kill me for saying that,” he muttered.

The next five minutes went by quick. Kajack saw it all happen in profile, as if from far away. Kretz and a couple fast talkers leaned out over the side of the ship to persuade a representative to row over and negotiate what to do in civil terms. Meanwhile, a dozen feet away and another fifteen up, upon the mast, Larkren lifted him by the hips and encouraged him with one spiny claw to scramble a little higher on the rope to which he was already clinging with a death grip.

“I think this is the best way. You’ll go first, then Marlon. Knees bent, Kajack.”

“Imagine the rope is a vine, and you’re swinging from tree to tree,” said Marlon helpfully. “You’ll do great!”

Kajack, exasperated and unwillingly endeared, softened his knees.

“Be quiet, be fast, don’t linger,” said Larkren.

He swung Kajack off the edge of the spreader as easily as a father flings a child headfirst into the river, and with just about the same regard for well-being. Kajack really fought to keep the scream in as he plummeted toward the surface of the ocean. It looked like it had been carved out of marble.

For an instant he was sure they had miscalculated and the rope would snap!

Then it was over! He swung brutally hard and rollercoaster-fast at the nadir of the arc, crested up over the railing of the other ship, released the rope at the very last second, hit the deck, and stuck the landing. Kajack stood there, frozen, arms out, bent at the waist, heaving through each breath as his lungs assaulted him.

He smothered his shocked, hysterical laughter.

Then Marlon came sailing in on another rope and crashed feet-first into Kajack’s spine, buckling Kajack to his knees and sprawling them together across the slippery deck. Kajack let out a loud, affronted squeak. There was no time to scramble up! They were rolling! The ship tilted just enough to slide their ragdoll bodies down the length of the deck! But there were no shouts, no cries of alarm, and their tumble was cut abruptly short by a stinking pile of fishing nets.

“Marlon!” Kajack mouthed, outraged. He clawed a herring skeleton from his mouth and spat out a glob of viscous goop.

“Sorry!”

“Sh!” Ugh, there was a fishing lure dangling from his hair. He slapped his arm around Marlon’s chest and yanked their bodies together. Whew! He was radiating heat.

His first impression of the ship, from those first few seconds of looking around, was the word “handmade.” It carried all the elegance of the  _ Unity _ but with none of the ridiculous bells and whistles. The  _ Nine Hells _ was functional. It was safe. Its crew had not inlaid its boards with glass nor gold, but its mast was strong and proud, its deck polished and clean, and all the various crates were organized neatly. Unfortunately, the captain’s compliance with good work environment standards left them with little shelter. Crouched and breathless among the fishing nets, they didn’t have a good angle on the rest of the  _ Nine Hells _ , but Kajack could hear noises: clinking, clanking, footsteps, and hushed discussions.

He poked his head up out of the nets and took a peek. By the railing, a good distance away from their position, three silhouettes burned black against the ghostly mist: a human, a tiefling, and a centaur.

“I don’t think we were right to leave Kennick behind.”

The deep, fruity voice could have belonged to a female jazz singer. It was the tiefling. She was an older woman—in her fifties, maybe—and was dressed in a heavy cowled robe that must have left her broiling in the muggy night air. Kajack was unsure if he recognized her and couldn’t identify her clearly in the flickering torchlight. He edged closer.

“Kajack,” Marlon breathed.

The tall human with the single black braid tossed their hair and sniffed. “She was  _ selling us out.  _ To that snivelling little Anaris boy I caught in the alley, no less! I don’t see why you’re complaining, Oz, seeing as you’ll get half her share. In fact, since Noose is apparently more interested in pursuing her personal history than her fucking job, you may get a  _ much  _ bigger cut than anticipated.”

“Ziren,” Marlon muttered. Kajack nodded his head.

They extracted themselves from the gooey pile of nets and scampered into the shadow of a row of crates. A hooded Q’Ravi sailor, silent and huge, was leaning against the mast and gazing off toward the  _ Unity  _ with milky-white eyes. In their hand they cradled the bleached skull of a gigantic bird. As Kajack and Marlon tiptoed by, the Q’Ravi raised the skull and fitted it to their face like a macabre mask.

“What do you think Noose wants with that ‘Hugo’ fella?” the tiefling wondered. “Can’t be an old flame, can he?”

“Schaal, Osbourne! What makes you think I want to hear your superficial gossip?”

“Well, what else do you and I have to talk about, dear? Our Noose is busy ‘negotiating,’ and you ditched the only fun one. No offense, England.”

The centaur spoke heavily. “None taken.”

Schaal was not a deity, cuss, nor social phenomenon with which Kajack was familiar, and he did not recognize the language of origin, but it sounded like a word he’d heard before.

Kajack accidentally stepped on a patch of seaweed. His foot shot out from under him as if he’d stepped on ice. He performed a grotesque jostling dance to regain his balance, waving his arms wildly; a split second before he fell and cracked the back of his skull open on the deck, a pair of strong arms caught him around the middle.

Marlon gave him a terrified, round-eyed look. If any of the three turned their head to investigate the shifting shadows just behind them, they were done for. Kajack’s tight glossy shirt caught the sob in his lungs and cut it off before it even made it to his throat. 

Marlon slipped his hands under Kajack’s armpits and lifted him back to his feet.

“Thanks,” Kajack barely breathed.

They crept across the final six-foot stretch of open deck and slipped through the open door of the deckhouse. It was cramped. There was a crusty smear of something suspiciously bloody across the map-table. No one was guarding the room. Jimmying open the wide trapdoor in the floor revealed a flight of narrow stairs descending into an ominous darkened berthing.

Kajack padded down the steps.

The passage was too narrow for two people to walk abreast. “I liked your song earlier,” Marlon breathed into Kajack’s ear.

“Yeah?” Kajack whispered back. He expected a stair where there were no more stairs to go and nearly fell over. Most of the doors and hatches along the pitch-black hallway were closed, but none was locked; he gently rotated each doorknob with a finger and peered through the crack. One chamber blinded him with a hanging lamp. When his vision cleared, the spots before his eyes resolved into a foursome of bored-looking Q’Ravi playing cards, and no Duchess, so Kajack held his breath and retreated, tugging the door closed behind him.

“I’d like to hear you sing more.” Marlon’s voice was shy.

_ I bet you would, gayass,  _ thought Kajack fondly. “Maybe I will,” he whispered instead. “It’s a surprise, so don’t tell, but I’ve been writing a new song—oh.”

The next door on the right was just barely ajar. A thin crack of light glittered prettily, like the pearlescent strand of a necklace chain, against the black of the passage. Kajack got up close to it and looked keenly.

“It’s her,” Kajack hissed.

He couldn’t see much through the crack, so he eased the door open a few more inches. The room was small and marvelously decorated. If he had to guess, Kajack would have identified it as the captain’s quarters. It was very bronze. Most decorative components, like the rug and the furnace, were a coppery-brown, but the tall candlesticks and the embroidery and the outline of continents on the big brass globes speckled the room with diamond-white. The Duchess sat alone and unguarded on a narrow embroidered sofa just below an actual chandelier. All the candles affixed around the room sputtered and spat with actual leaping flame. The room was warm, even hot. Her captors had made her comfortable. 

The creak of the door drew her attention.

She turned her pleading eyes toward Kajack and visibly slumped with relief. Her blonde hair instantly darkened—it was like she’d been straining for hours to hold up the illusion—and shot to the length of her armpits. Her skin went raspberry-pink; her plump hands grew fearsome claws. 

“Monty,” Kajack mouthed.

He squeezed into the room and darted to her side. She was tied up and gagged. He went for the gag first, but it got caught on the tip of her tusk; he removed it, and then, with care, and feeling very much like a magician, he unraveled the crumpled handkerchief crammed in her mouth.

She coughed and spat.

“What are you doing here?” Kajack whispered. “I was so sure it wasn’t you!”

Monty tossed her head. Her eyes had gone wide and wild, black as the bottom of the world, but her eyebrows were curved in a stricken bow. When she finally had her breath back, she gasped: “Get me out of here!”

“We will!” they assured her.

“If they find out I’m not the Duchess, they’ll just kill me to get rid of me. I saw their faces. You’re never supposed to see your kidnappers’ faces.”

“What happened, Monty?”

Monty screwed up her face. “She thought Anaris hired assassins on her. I told her that was  _ stupid!  _ If he was plotting to kill her, he wouldn’t implicate himself by inviting her to his estate first. But she thought someone was tracking her anyhow. Convinced he was going to kill her and, I don’t know, frame his butler for the murder. She told me to double her and give us an advantage. Whoever was after her wouldn’t know which one to attack. Guess they… went straight for me.” She fought to breathe.

Marlon nodded, squinting, as if trying to picture it.

“Monty,” Kajack said timidly, “it was only an advantage for her. She was trying to get you  _ killed.  _ Or, at least, she was totally cool with you getting killed!”

She seemed to approve of Marlon better. “I had to do what she asked, okay?” she pointed out bitterly. “Didn’t have a choice!” Marlon was busily cutting her bindings away from her wrists. “I might not have any power or land, but I have my title. Do you know how much I could do if I just kept it? How much of Mestrus—the world—I could affect? I’m about to come of age, and if I stop being selfish for one second and grit my teeth and  _ bear it  _ and do whatever she says and keep, I don’t know, writing letters home to my real mom claiming that everything’s fine…”

She preened her sweat-slicked hair away from her forehead, tucking each greasy lock on either side of her central horn.

“I could change so much,” she said hotly. “I could take down the Fuhrer myself if I built the connections! And honestly, Kajack, I get why you want out, and I feel bad for you, but face it: it’s selfish of you to throw all  _ your  _ power down the drain. You’re older than me. You could start doing political stuff now. You wouldn’t have to wait.” For a split second, despair overtook her. She wrung her hands.

“Um, hello! I am doing political stuff!”

Marlon looked pensive. It was a look Kajack rarely saw on him. He said quietly: “Did your mum tell you all that? Did she say you were being selfish?”

Monty gritted her teeth and twisted her face into an inimical glare. Her eyes boiled black. “So what if she did? So what if she’s  _ right?  _ What the hell is my future, anyway? Either I somehow get out of this stupid arrangement, go home to Eaoduin, and live with the fact that I could have cleaned up Mestrus from the inside out,  _ or  _ I stick it out and do the right thing for all the tieflings and dragonborn in this horrible country. Don’t you dare tell me I should just be a normal kid right now. I know it.” She angrily dragged her loose, gilded sleeve under her eyes, staining the cloth with dark saltwater. “But I’m not.”

“How touching,” said a bored, crisp, accented voice from directly behind Kajack. The tip of a blade pushed against the back of his neck.

Kajack screamed.

Ziren dropped the knife and slammed him to the floor. “Nice going, arsehole! As if we needed more drama on this ship! Osbourne—” They grabbed Kajack’s hair in both fists and yanked him, hard, across the floor. He screamed in pain and outrage. “You’ve got the other half-elf. Great. Throw that one in the water. We don’t need him.”

The red tiefling was clutching a squirming, furious Marlon to her chest with the exact same slippery embrace as someone trying to hang onto a big fish. She wasn’t exactly groping him, but his shirt was rumpled exactly as if she had given him a purple nurple, and he was crying out in pain; Kajack, genuinely incensed and learning the meaning of the phrase ‘seeing red,’ let out a howl that barely resembled any noise he had ever made, grabbed Ziren’s wrists, and tried to snap them.

“Are you sure, dear?” panted the tiefling. “Well, all right, I suppose you have a point. I’ll just try to fling him as close to the other boat as possible so they can grab him quick. Run, Miss Montgomery,” she added quietly. “What are you going to do with that one, Ziren?”

“This one?  _ This  _ one—” Ziren smacked Kajack in the back of the head so hard he saw stars—“is the little shit Kennick sold us out to. You and Noose better find out how much he knows. What the—” The knife they’d discarded was suddenly back in their grip, silver and bright and inflexible as the stone-like hand that held it. “Wait, what did you say? Where’s the Duchess? Who is  _ she?” _

Monty was already speeding for the open door. She ducked around the embroidered sofa and leapt over a writing desk. Ziren’s outstretched fingers blew past her by a hair. As Monty made and aced her great escape, she threw out an arm and knocked a pair of big world globes off their hooks; they thumped to the floor and rolled around haphazardly. It was all the distraction Marlon needed to jerk out of the tiefling’s grasp.

“Kajack!” he cried. “Come on! Hurry!” He waved urgently, bounding toward the door, and then, apparently realizing that the centaur or the big Q’Ravi would snatch Monty if he didn’t race after her and back her up, he turned and sprinted down the shadowy passage. Ziren abandoned Kajack and pelted after him.

Kajack wrenched himself to his feet. The tiefling watched him with interest.

He had barely reached the doorway when a stout little halfling woman swung from the top of the doorframe and kneed him hard in the chest. He let out a breathless squeak and stumbled back into the tiefling’s arms. She caught him neatly and kicked the door shut. It happened so fast he hardly noticed he was being captured until it was over.

No bindings, no weapons, no spells, and yet he was blocked from all routes of escape and trapped in a room with two fully-armored assassins.

“Goodness!” the tiefling said merrily, tossing him over the back of the sofa. “Well, now, I certainly never expected it to go like this! What happened, Noose? I thought you were negotiating.”

The halfling strode into Kajack’s field of vision. She was wearing an ugly expression and unlacing colorful clay beads from the ends of her pigtails. “Was. They told me to give them Ziren in exchange for Hugo. I agreed. Apparently, I’m not allowed to make decisions like that. Captain Azena went across to re-negotiate.” She stood up straight and crossed her arms over her belly. “Don’t tell Ziren.” Her voice was a sharp, rapid bark.

“Oh, dear. And why, may I ask, were you so quick to sell our leader out?”

She threw up her hands. “Because they annoy the hell out of me!”

Osborne smiled faintly. She took a seat on a round, warm-brown ottoman and crossed her wrists in her lap. Kajack slithered off the back of the couch and glared at both of them from the floor with a deathly look that would have killed on sight, had either noticed.

“How so, darling?”

“I  _ liked  _ Kennick.” Noose stuck her hands in her pockets and trotted around the perimeter of the room. “Raleil, so  _ what  _ if she sold us out? I would, too, if I didn’t think Ziren was my best chance. Damn! We should’ve known it wasn’t the real Duchess. The one  _ we  _ snatched wasn’t vile.”

“My, my, and here I thought it was just a job to you.”

Noose paused.

“Okay, Osbourne, I do have a history with Castra Ati,” she said flatly. “Are you happy?”

“Pray elaborate. What ‘history,’ my dear?”

“Hang on. Which one are you?” Noose said sharply to Kajack.

“Kajack—Anaris,” he said reflexively.

Her eyebrow went up. Oh, he knew rogues, and Luma got that look sometimes, with the unfathomable light in the eyes and the curling hands. In her round halfling eyes was a very crafty, analyzing sort of comportment, as if she could look at Kajack and approximate immediately how much his father would pay for his ransom, or draw out Kajack’s worst secrets, just from hearing his family name. “No kidding?” was all she said.

“Go on, Noose.”   
  
She turned away. “She cut my eye out of my head. How’s that?”

“Why? Not that it was your fault, dear,” Osbourne added hastily. “Only normally, with her, there is an instigating event.”

“Hah! I broke into her mansion trying to snatch some jewelry and I ‘saw something’ I ‘wasn’t supposed to see.’ Yeah, sure, whatever. It happens. A normal person would just report the break-in to the Keepers and get some better security. Not her.” Noose pursed her lips. “The juice has been running on  _ that  _ debt for a long, long time.” She performed an odd gesture so quick Kajack barely caught it: she slammed her two fists together, one on top of the other, twice, pinky against index. He had seen Luma and Smolls do it, but he didn’t know what it meant. “I don’t want her eye. I don’t want two eyes. I want her life.”

Noose couldn’t seem to stay still. There was a twitchiness in her body that had nothing to do with visible anxiety or fear, of which she had none. She paced and flicked her head around with the rapid mechanical jerks of a crow. Her face stayed rock-cold.

“Oh, darling,” said Osbourne sweetly. “How theatrical! Well, anyhow, get in line.”   
  
Noose growled and plucked a loose thread off her shoulder. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d ditch that hack before they stole my kill.”

“No, dear, although you are, as always, correct. Ziren wants the Duchess dead far more than I. On the record,  _ I _ joined the team because I had hoped to free Miss Montgomery.”

Kajack sat bolt upright. “Are you Monty’s  _ real  _ mom?” he cried. Both women leapt forward to shush him, and he hunched down, contrite. “I mean, her adoptive mom! The Lady—something—”

“No!” said Osbourne laughingly. “Oh, dear, not at all! You speak of the Lady Dellatessa, I presume? Miss Montgomery’s ‘real’ mother, as you put it,  _ hired  _ me to, well, ‘put down’ the Duchess. We are close friends, you see. Amoura said she wouldn’t trust anyone but a fellow tiefling to ‘do the job.’ My dear Amoura caught wind of a terrible injustice happening to her daughter from the suspicious tone of her daughter’s letters—and the biological mother’s refusal to let the child visit—” She hesitated. Her hand came up and pressed against her chest. She winced. “But, you see,” she said lowly, “you see, I was already playing a part, because the Duchess took something from me as well, long ago.”

“Your eye,” said Noose. “Got you, too, huh?”

“No, my darling chameleon. That was from… ah, it’s not germane. I’ve simply lived an exciting life.” With one long, red nail, Osbourne tapped her brow above her right eye, which Kajack abruptly realized was glassy and fixed in place. One of Osbourne’s hands, intentionally or unconsciously, was tracing her chest; the other came to rest on her round stomach. Her mouth hung open. “No, I was a wet nurse,” she said, sadly, “for the darling little girl when she was just a baby. Young man, do you, perchance, know what a wet nurse does? ”

Kajack was fixed on her hand. He shook his head mutely. Noose, however, gasped, and for the first time since Kajack had met her, her expression shifted from a menacing scowl to acute horror.

“No!” she said angrily. She leapt to her feet. “Osbourne!”

The candles flickered urgently. “Ah! To be employed under a Duchess! What glamour! The lights, the glitter, the romance of it all! Now—” Osbourne’s voice dropped to a confidential hush. “I wasn’t meant to be nursing the baby. Miz Castra hired me, resentfully, as a mark of good will. This was in the early days when she was still trying to raise Miss Montgomery as her own.” She sighed. “Well, I’ve always said a tiefling should get a tiefling’s milk.

“One day, the Duchess found me nursing poor little Miss Montgomery. In an hour’s time I awoke to find myself wrapped in bandages and a frantic chambermaid stemming the blood. Both my breasts, my dear.” She smiled placidly. “She took my breasts. In one stroke, er, or perhaps two, the woman transformed me into a walking metaphor! Now I have no choice but to flit about as a reductive, tragic emblem of the woman stripped of her ‘femininity’—if not her fertility.

“You see? It was a cruel, calculated move to rob me of not only a pair of organs, but my right to an identity. Bitch sewed me irrevocably to my own body. I am hurt, I am offended, I am horrified, I struggle with my self-image and sexual confidence now—despite myself—but most of all I am disgusted. Perhaps the Duchess did not count on the fact that I am  _ glad  _ to be left alive.” She was looking across at Noose. Her voice did not sour when she said, “I give you my blessing, darling. She is your kill.”

It was too much to even think about. Kajack touched his own chest and stared, horrified, at Osbourne’s lined, gentle, placid smile. He thought he’d have a similar reaction if someone were to do the same to him. He didn’t like his breasts at the best of times, and their existence alarmed and shamed him on a level beyond dysphoria, but the thought of a malevolent force violently taking them away against his will was grotesque.

“How’d you know?” Noose said, relaxed again. “I seem to remember our fearless leader refusing to tell us who we were supposed to kill until we got all the way to the fuckin’ desert.”

“No, no,” said Osbourne gently. “Well, I simply happened to know Ziren personally long before our little team was formed, my dear, and they invited me out of kindness, presuming I would want revenge. But how did  _ you  _ know?”

Noose’s mouth twisted oddly. “Ziren isn’t that slick. I’d been keeping tabs on the woman ever since my first attempt. Yeah, I have a life outside of revenge, but every year I go full stalker for a bit.” She snapped her fingers. “Shit, some days I break into her neighbor’s house and stare through her windows with binoculars. I got to  _ know  _ her cleaning staff, especially that one stupid-looking human who fumed for weeks, vanished, and then reappeared a week later higher up the coast with a flyer for a ‘discreet mission.’ Discreet. Yeah.”

“First attempt?” Kajack probed. Noose’s head snapped over.

“Son,” said Osbourne cheerily, “we are talking, and you are ruining the vibes.”

Noose ignored her. “It was after she stole my eye,” she told Kajack. “I got my plastic one straightaway—” He saw hers then; it was subtle, and if she hadn’t pointed it out herself, he might have never noticed the prosthetic—“and started building a new identity. If I couldn’t murder her as a thief, I’d murder her as a Lady. I stole some pretty ribbons and dresses and even got a few friends in on it to play my maids and fake my papers. That’s when we ran into a rich little flirt up from Bellichi up in Kroshah. I figured I could use him for easy cash.” She chuckled low. “Would you believe it! That insipid joke of a man actually thought we had something! He was going to propose to me! Can you spell ‘gullible,’ Mister Sugar Daddy? And there I was, hooking up with his bodyguard on the side!”   
  
Kajack pressed his fingertips over his lips.  _ “You’re _ the Lady Weivieria of Ta’aslé?” he squealed.

Beneath his veneer of delight was real distress. Little flirt, he thought. Slut.  _ That little pecker had been in everything. _ Insipid. Gullible.  _ Joke.  _ Can I turn off that impulse? he thought miserably. Is there a way to be unlike him and preserve me without losing me?

“Wanna see how I got him?” she said. Her dour stare brightened with interest. Her lips plumped and pursed. Both eyes stretched open to the proportion of a doll’s. She turned herself back and forth against the candlelight, which produced new dimension along her nose; the shadows in the room left the bags under her eyes and scrambled to cradle her cheeks. “I just don’t know what the oysters will do to my hips!” she recited in a fretful, babyish voice. “But I don’t know which salad to get. Why don’t you order for me? What’s wrong, baby? No, I only have the hots for you. I’m going to the theater with my girlfriends. Can I have some money?” Noose grinned and fell back into herself. “You know the most exploitable thing about rich people? They see what they want to see.” She slammed her fist against her palm. “Pity I never got close enough. Osbourne, up. We’re burning moonlight.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Kajack said sharply. He scrambled backward on his elbows. “No, look, if money’s what you want, just hold me for ransom—!”

“No dice, boy. I don’t take IOUs, and I don’t care much for snivelling little rich sons. But…” The woman shot a look at Osbourne. “No, I really don’t care about anything but the Duchess. We’re going to lie to Ziren about this whole conversation anyway. What’s there to say? We grabbed the wrong woman. If we’re doing anything but starting over, we’re wasting time. Osbourne. Get rid of him.”

“How, darling?”

“Whatever. Throw him in the water, put him on a rowboat and push him off to shore, I don’t care. Just don’t kill him. I’ll see what I can do about Hugo. The big boy loves me, and an ‘in’ is exactly what we need right now.”

Osbourne eventually decided to favor Plan A, in spite of Kajack’s clamorous protests that he couldn’t swim. “Sorry, dear,” she said, sweetly, as she immobilized him and swung him around her shoulders like a sack of grain. “I do regret this. Quite honestly, you’re lucky we caught you talking to Kennick! If you ever see the girl again, do give her my regards—and thank her for saving your life.” She clicked up the stairs and emerged under the damp, chilly night sky, which had deepened to a minacious black. “I must say, my impulse  _ was  _ to slit your throat before I dumped you in the water, but Noose has a good head on her shoulders, and she’s right. Ridding this world of the Duchess is our priority above all.”

She carried him to the railing and, ignoring his attempts to punch and kick, heaved him over the side. He yowled as he fell.

Even over the whistling of the black air spinning around him, he heard her say aloud, “Huh, what’s going on over there?”

Kajack hit the water with an ugly, splashless ker- _ thunk. _

The Delta squad would later claim ignorance about what happened next. At this point, the young red-haired deckhand who was so skilled with undoing knots had just released a fully-conscious and irate Hugearmious from his bindings and incited a revolution on the deck of the  _ Unity. _ Further complicating things was the presence of the Q’Ravi captain of the  _ Nine Hells, _ who was very much willing to take advantage of the interrupted negotiations to loot the ship and even carry off a few crewmen. Most parties involved had clocked a small rowboat drifting near the ships, but no boater, so they’d disregarded it as flotsam in favor of suppressing the mutiny.

Kretz saw him. “Kajack!  _ Swim!”  _ He ducked around the mast and sprinted to the railing. He stretched out his hand. “You won’t drown. I’m right here.”

Kajack screamed. His breath bubbled violently against the swelling waves.

“Kick your legs back and forth, sort of churn the water,” said Kretz patiently. “Don’t thrash! Stay upright, keep your head above water, and—”

“I can’t!” Kajack howled.

“Your head is already above water! Look, I can see you kicking! You’re doing it! You’re swimming, son. Don’t give up. Look at me.”

Kajack wrenched his eyes open and, through tears, looked out away from himself and up at Kretz. He was kicking for all he was worth, and, to his astonishment, his body was actually weakly buoying up with every kick. He wasn’t just floating, or, rather, he wasn’t floating at all: he was propelling himself upward through the icy, slopping water with every stroke.

It was shockingly physically draining. He’d shed the vest and the coat hours ago and had only retained the shirt for modesty’s sake. Now he thought the tight, flappy top would be his coffin, so he tried in vain to rip it; of course, it clung stubbornly to his skin with the persistence of wet paper. Anaris had shelled out kings to keep the stupid thing on him.

He gasped and gulped and sucked down startling mouthfuls of seawater, wheezing through painfully constricted lungs.

“Press the water down with your hands,” Kretz instructed, “like you’re trying to scoop it away from you.” He mimed paddling. “Okay, good. You’re getting closer!”

Depending on your side of history, the deck of the  _ Unity  _ was either rampant chaos or an organized insurrection of hardworking sailors against the nefarious Lumen bandits. Kajack caught a glimpse of Smolls, axe in hand, trying to placate three furious deckhands actively wrestling him. Luma had become engaged in an unwieldy acrobatic swordfight in the ropes above. Kretz kept glancing behind him and ducking as spells and projectiles missed his head; despite this, he never once withdrew his outstretched hand, so Kajack fixed his eyes on it and did not look away as he doggy-paddled forward.

“That’s it!” Kretz said. “Kajack, if you need to take a rest, there’s an empty rowboat drifting behind you. But you’re almost here. Five more feet.”

“Yes, grab the boat, Mr. Anaris,” said a thin, caustic voice from a patch of thin air three feet away. Kretz’s face changed and paled.

A ghostly pair of arms shot out of the rowboat and hauled Kajack out of the water like a net of freshly-caught fish.

“Eugh!” Kajack squealed. The hands heaved him high and spilled him into the dinghy.

“No!” Kretz bellowed, already running along the railing, but that was the last Kajack saw of him before Fulbright, the strawberry-blonde escape artist, grabbed Kretz around the waist and tumbled with him out of view.

Kajack mopped his hair out of his face and looked up. He was infuriated enough to kill. For a moment, his brain lagged behind reality, and he had to digest the simplest facts first: he was back in custody. He was in the rowboat. His captor had seized the oars and was already rowing them away with powerful, steady strokes.

“I told you,” panted Oliver, whose Invisibility was rapidly fading; “I told you. If I don’t step it up, I lose my job. I’m not giving up my pay, my benefits—my life—for a man I hardly know.” His eyes burned white. “No thanks, Mr. Anaris.  _ Sleep.” _


	37. Kajack Snaps

Zhara was not invasive. His behavior was the closest to dignified and professional out of everyone Kajack had encountered since arriving at the estate.

But Kajack found little comfort in his impersonal gropes, preferring instead to hunch, stony, against the edge of the washtub and divorce himself from his body until the search was over and all was revealed. Lord Anaris’s shadowy feet paced back and forth beyond the closed door.

“Could you be any less gentle?” Kajack said nastily.

It was exactly four in the morning, which meant that he had crossed over into the sixth day of his unhappy sojourn in the Anaris estate. Save for the cannonry out in the water, all the drama had ebbed and evaporated with the recovery of the Duchess Castra Ati. That had happened an hour ago. He’d lost a significant slice of the night to the restless constraints of magical sleep until the dinghy had bumped against the shore of Bellichi and Oliver had roused him.

The Keepers, Oliver said, had found two blue-lipped women hiding among the corals in the open sea exhibit on an eight-hour spell of Water Breathing. One was the unconscious, bloody Duchess—the real one—with a black eye, presumably sustained after the Dominate Person spell wore off; and the other was a barely conscious, shivering Parisa Villamorta, who, despite her weak pulse, shallow breathing, and twitching, bloodshot eyes, was incandescent with rage when retrieved from the icy water and transferred into the care of Lord Anaris’s private household. Now a rumor was going around that the Princess Darla Ati and the Lord’s tiefling housekeeper had secretly fallen in forbidden love with each other and had vanished together during the excitement. Kajack could only presume she had gotten away okay. He had seen neither Monty nor Marlon aboard either ship when he was thrown from the _Nine Hells._ The Keepers were overtaxed and funnelling their numbers into the most pressing sources of disquiet around Bellichi, which did not include two children.

No one was looking for Montgomery Dellatessa.

“Don’t touch my hair,” Kajack snapped, miserable.

Zhara heedlessly swept his finger along the curves of Kajack’s ears and turned up a spell phone. He pocketed it without a word. Next was the grimy, horrible outfit that Kajack spitefully hoped was ruined from the seawater. Zhara roughly patted his hands across Kajack’s chest, not, to Kajack’s relief, in a perverse way, but in the sort of way a man might search another man for smuggled weapons. Could Zhara feel the makeshift binder? He gave no indication if he could. Kajack felt a looming spectre as Zhara reached to undo his shirt and pants. Zhara was married, unlike Oliver, who quite possibly had very little experience with the philosophical other outside of dressing male nobility and could perhaps not identify by sight the shape of a body and the distribution of its organs.

“Stop it,” Kajack snarled. He was humiliated to the point of fever.

“Doin’ my job.”

A dizzying rush of pure dread tingled up Kajack’s arms and drew out the dull nausea. It was as if an entire colony of ants was racing up and down his flesh, tickling him with millions of tiny feet and weighing him down by at least ten pounds. Under all those ants was a writhing black figure. Before Zhara could pull the shirt off, Kajack shuffled into the corner behind the bathtub and tightened his arms over his chest. He was not afraid. He met Zhara’s eyes with a ghastly fury.

“Don’t,” he growled. He pushed Zhara away.

“Don’t do my _job?”_ Zhara said incredulously. “What do you take me for, a secret king? Loaded with riches?” He chuckled sourly. “What?”

“If you touch me again, I will drown you in the sink.”

It was the same core instinct that made him want to breathe and eat. This circus act would be the last time another person compelled him by force. He hated being pushed around. He was sick of it. He badly wanted to act. Vividly, he saw the ugly, helpless look on Monty’s true face and closed his eyes against it. No more!

“I got a family to feed,” Zhara pointed out. “My niece has disappeared. Can’t find her on an empty stomach.”

Kajack considered compromising and gave up. “Tough!” he snarled. “I’m not making your job easier anymore. Not yours, not Oliver’s, not Hugearmious’s. I don’t care about your family or your work. I _only_ care about me,” he said, harshly, “and if I get the chance, I _will_ kill you.”

Zhara’s mouth curled. He abruptly stood and stared down at Kajack unfathomably for nearly a minute.

His head bowed. “Dress yourself.” He selected a robe from the rack and turned away. The robe was soft and clean. Just like Anaris to stock his bathrooms like a spa. Kajack divested himself of the tight frilly suit and slithered into it like a snake to its skin.

Zhara put his cool black eyes on Kajack again. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said matter-of-factly. He combed one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, twitched his lips, and then went out of the room and let the door click shut behind him.

Kajack froze.

Well, shoot. That could have meant absolutely anything.

He released a long, shaky breath and crawled up onto the edge of the tub, where he perched in a crouch, curling his toes painfully around the rich, dusty porcelain.

It was an inexorable fact that if he were going to escape the Anaris name for good, he would have to form an actual plan.

“Great,” whispered Kajack.

Where was that force of character that had guided him through weeks of hell in the Keeper training grounds? He curled his body up like a woodlouse inside the robe and tensely picked sea-salt from his hands, coiled like a spring, ready to attack anyone who came in through the door and tried to retrieve him from his self-imposed hermitage, but inside his head he was parceling out every scrap of information he had gained about Lord Anaris and the Anaris estate. What could he do? He only had one responsibility: get out!

“Forget the Duchess!” He wasn’t even technically assigned to the mission. Maybe it had been a mistake to engage himself with the Lumen’s business while actively being pursued by his parasitic biological father. One thing at a time, Kajack!

He sprang from the edge of the tub, trotted across the chamber, and leaned the heels of his hands against the lilac sink. “I’m gonna need a little help here,” he whispered into the mirror.

His reflection was quiet. Were it not for its blotchy eyes and thin, scraggly mustache, the figure opposite would have looked irresistibly like Morgan Molucella.

What would Morgan do? Simple. He’d hang back, silent and grave, until Kajack had tired himself out flapping around complaining and coming out with tempestuous suggestions, and then he would step up and quietly address the underlying conditions that had borne forth the symptom. Anaris, the root cause, would have to go down. Kajack would never escape the city until Anaris was in no condition to pay, direct, or otherwise encourage his goons. He didn’t have to be dead. Just powerless. If he were incapacitated, or if his pawns’ loyalties were obstructed somehow, then Kajack could waltz right out.

It came to Kajack as if it had always been there.

It had.

“Oh, honey, we simply can’t be carrying out our antipatriarchal teenage rebellion in a bathrobe,” he whispered to his reflection.

He went to Anaris’s bedroom, which was unlocked and unoccupied, first, and prised open the tall oaken armoire. Resisting the urge to rip clothes down indiscriminately and stomp on them, he selected various pieces that looked durable, if jeweled, and tried them on systematically. One shirt was watercolor-green, so he took it. His work was quick and quiet. Distantly, the unmistakable roar of Hugearmious rang through the walls, so Kajack increased his speed. Well, that could only be good news. If Hugearmious had survived the mutiny aboard the _Unity,_ that meant the _Unity_ hadn’t sunk.

The little quarto he had skimmed earlier was lying open at the foot of Anaris’s bed. Somebody had underlined half the monologue in heavy pen. Kajack disregarded the book completely until he had shimmied into a pair of modest riding breeches, black. Ugh! They were too big for his frame. He buckled himself in with a belt. The open page read:

> COPPÉLIA Pray, rest yourself, good woman; your chest is heaving.
> 
> JESTER What’s this reversal? Speak to me again as if I be a lady, and I will treat thee as a fool.
> 
> COPPÉLIA Ay, watch thy cooling tone. Would not you be a lady if you could?
> 
> JESTER Ne’er, miss. I know not where I am with the wealthy; your hearts all spin like flipping rooks.
> 
> _[Enter AGUECHEEK with CARLISLE, GHOST, GUARDS]_
> 
> AGUECH. Lady Promise!
> 
> COPPÉLIA Alas! My nurse hath sold me after all!
> 
> AGUECH. See our bows and swords, lady. Thou art outnumbered strong. Return with us to Orthella or watch thy lover die.
> 
> JESTER We shall die together!—What, my lady?
> 
> COPPÉLIA Thou art a commoner, my Jester-love.
> 
> Perhaps this voice I hear is that of World,
> 
> Reminding me to know my place and class:
> 
> My station’s that which disallows for light,
> 
> And tho we have been sprinting into night,
> 
> E’en in the dark I cannot keep my wish.
> 
> To save my Jester’s life is my last will
> 
> Before my freedom seeps away at dawn.
> 
> I take your ring, dear Aguecheek: put it on
> 
> My hand before my shaking courage wanes;
> 
> But Jester, dear, amidst these honest pains
> 
> Remember me, your grace, and never fail
> 
> To kiss a lady ’fore you let her go,
> 
> To tell her jokes, to bring her laugh to air,
> 
> To make her merry evermore and ne’er
> 
> Forget my clumsy love: t’was real, you know,
> 
> And curséd be this changing heart inside
> 
> But if I stay with thee, I kill my bride.

Kajack scraped his tongue against his front teeth and wiggled his feet into a pair of woven sandals. They weren’t in vogue, but they were the only shoes in Anaris’s closet that could be adjusted to size, so he buckled them tight to his skin and yelped when he pinched himself. It would do.

His baptism occurred under the radiant silver shine of Anaris’s ensuite bathroom and took less than twenty minutes to set. Sure, he had nothing but magic to work with, but he did what he could to leave a ring of stark green in the porcelain sink. He rubbed a finger against the stain. Nope. That wasn’t coming out easy. When he met his own eyes in the ridiculous lit mirror, which went as high as the ceiling and wrapped two walls, they were framed by wet, delicious, lovely green, green as the soapy lights swishing over the night sky, the creature on the back of his hand, the shirt on his back, grass, clover, clean air, sea.

He swung round triumphantly and skipped out the door. He met no one at first but heard Anaris’s tired murmur through the halls and avoided it. When he was heading around the south bend of the first floor, on course for the kitchen, he was busy looking behind him—that was the excuse he would give—and collided with the other Anaris abductee on the swell of the disastrous evening. He smacked into her so hard his pulse jolted up into his chin and throbbed there.

She was raw and icy from the aquarium water. One side of her face was encrusted with half-congealed blood. Her high-necked wine-black dress was torn around the hem, and her veins, blue, stood out against her skin like lightning bolts; she was glowing, radiant and cynical, and so alive.

“Oof!” he cried out, then clapped his hands over his mouth and gaped.

“Ugh,” Parisa huffed darkly, flinching away from him.

“What are you doing here?” (This was whispered.)

She sniffed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kajack, was I _supposed_ to be a ‘good little girl’ and let that spineless insect feed me drugs and tie me to the bed?” she hissed hotly. “Some woman climbed through the window and distracted the doctor. Let me know if you need me to say that again more slowly, since I know nothing penetrates that thick skull if it isn’t about _you.”_

“Seriously?” Kajack hissed back. “You don’t get me at all. I’d _love_ it if everything wasn’t about me right now.” He shuffled back down the hallway the way he came. Parisa strode after him. “Um, you got any spells you can cast to make us, like, untraceable?”

“I don’t have _any_ spells left. I haven’t rested. Unlike you, from what I hear.”

He ignored this.

“Where are you going?” he whispered.

“Out, obviously. The Duchess is safe, so I’ve done my job. Have you done yours?” she shot back. “Where are _you_ going?” He didn’t answer.

He was briefly sidetracked by the discovery of an unlocked, but barred, weapons locker. He jimmied it open and raided the racks inside for anything familiar. It was a dusty hole. The only corner without a visible layer of dust and grime had a heavy sack in it.

“Parisa,” he whispered. “Over here. I found their stuff.”

Despite the fact that she was shoeless and bloodied, Parisa somehow managed to click over with the elegance of someone in six-inch heels. She put a curled hand on her hip and sneered. “Color me unsurprised. You had a whole week to get their weapons back, but you spent it sipping Angeliques and lounging on chaises instead of looking in closets right under your nose.”

He narrowly missed the watchful eyes of a guard as he leaned out a window and hurled the sack of equipment onto the private beach.

“Yeah. What’s that gonna do?” Parisa asked. “You can’t even signal them. In case you were too busy looking in a mirror to notice, they took our comms.”

He never had a good comeback when she turned her venom on him, so he tended to jumpily endure it. In his admittedly narrow perspective, there was just no good reason for her to dislike him so personally, but she was the only person capable of one-upping him who _didn’t_ make him fume. How could he? It was Parisa. She was too razor-sharp, too incisive, too utterly punctual with her snapping commentary to be hated in turn. But now he was fuming.

“Um… I’m going to cast Feather Fall on you,” he said, turning away so she couldn’t see his face, “and, let’s say I pushed you out the window, do you think you can make it to the beach from the window if you float?”

“You want to _push me out the window?”_ Parisa said crisply. _“That’s_ the genius plan you’ve devised—in your head that’s more filled with mousse cake than anything substantial, or, better yet, useful—?” She gritted her teeth. “This was a fucking mistake.”

He whirled on her. _“Parisa!”_ he cried, irate. Oh, he got it. He got it. He had a sudden terrible vision of himself with a knife in his hand. He raised his chin high. “I am not your enemy! Don’t you get it? Yeah, the stuff you say hurts, and I’m sure you’re _so-o-o_ proud of yourself that you can be _so_ hurtful, but you’re wasting your time. If you weren’t horrible to me—!” Oh, he was still going, and his volume was rising. Her eyebrow shot up. “I want you to take me seriously, Parisa! I am _good at this!_ I am _not_ useless!”

He hated, and tried to reel back the moment it escaped him, the ugly intensity that filled his voice; but it did have a sharper ring than his usual cooing squeal, which perhaps was what struck Parisa. To her credit, she didn’t even pause. She fired back: “Fine. If you’re done with your tantrum, we may as well.”

“Don’t say _tantrum,”_ he snarled. “Maybe I’m younger than you, but Smolls is even younger than me. And he’s respectable.”

“At last,” she sneered back, “a display of substance. Maybe you’re more than I thought.” She climbed up onto the windowsill and dangled her legs off into the abyss below.

Now it was uneasy between them. 

Kajack grimaced. “The guards might shoot at you while you’re floating down, so, like, don’t get hit. And grab the stuff and run as soon as you hit the ground.”

Parisa rolled her eyes impatiently. “What a brilliant piece of advice!” And she threw herself out of the tower.

He only realized later that it was a mark of trust, even respect, to jump. Had he forgotten to replenish his spell slots or failed to summon the magic to save her, she would have splattered on the sand. But the enchantment came to his fingers and lips as easily as breathing out. Parisa’s fall slowed with grace, and, surrounded in a gentle pinkish fog, she began to twirl with the lazy motions of someone dangling from the end of an unravelling sweater.

Kajack didn’t stop to see if she made it to the ground. He turned and hurried down the hallway, loving without end the relative ventilation of his clothes, and slipped into the kitchen, which was deserted.

He didn’t know what to look for. Oliver had referenced a “lockbox,” or a “safebox,” but that failed to generate more than a vague mental image in Kajack’s mind. It was possible that the safebox in question wasn’t even in the kitchen. Regardless of the expediency of his plan, detectives would have frowned on his methods; he followed no grid nor measures of discretion, instead flinging open cabinets and pawing through cupboards at random.

Yes!

In the back of the pantry, stiff and iron-cold and half-obscured by a sack of innocuous brown and white mushrooms, there was a little black safe grouted into the wall.

It was secured with a combination lock. Kajack stared at this and chewed nervously on his pinkie fingernail.

Could the combination be his mother’s birthday? Was Anaris, despite everything, secretly sentimental? He spun the dial. Nothing. His own? Unlikely. He tried it. Anaris’s? He only knew his father’s birthday because his mother had once acknowledged the date. No.

Maybe it wasn’t Anaris who set the locks. It would make way more sense if the pantry were Oliver’s domain, but that could be bad, because where Anaris was conceivably the type to write down his passwords, Oliver seemed like an irritating sort of numbers-geek who could hold all his important codes in his head. More importantly, significant dates in his life were much less apparent. Kajack didn’t even know Oliver’s birthday, let alone, say, his first kiss, or pet, or a late loved one’s memorial day.

He ruffled his hands through his hair and was comforted by the shimmering color that enveloped him.

Oliver was around his age, right? And, from what little Kajack actually knew about him, he had the vibes of someone born under the sign of Urskus. Kajack reluctantly spun in a random date. Another. Each successively failed, but he went on with increasing determination, fanning out his hunt to include the surrounding years.

Click.

His jaw dropped. No _way_ that worked, he thought, in considerable panic.

But the little iron wheel on the face of the safebox spun, whirring brightly, and the door unlatched itself and glided blithely forward, so Kajack swung it open and eagerly snatched its contents. He crumpled the paper package and stowed it in his pocket.

Dawn came.

Kajack busied himself with his machinations. At six o’ clock, he emerged from the kitchen and, dusting his hands off, encountered Oliver, who had been racing around alerting the household to the bizarre disappearance of the frightening pale woman from Dr. Taro’s exam rooms. He received a frantic rebuke.

“I couldn’t find you, sir! I had it in my head you’d run off _again!_ And look at what you’ve done to your _hair;_ Lord Anaris will be furious—”

“Get off my dick,” Kajack muttered. “I was getting a snack. Where’s my dad?”

“The drawing room—”

He had not yet had cause to explore the drawing room. It was the first room in the entire estate that had abandoned the ideal of sobriety and embraced tackiness, for which Kajack could not help but begrudgingly give points. Yet the room was not Camp; it was camping, and the effect was lost. The glorious cashmere watermelon-red rug, the enormous green cocktail lamp, the overripe pineapple wire birdcage imprisoning a drooping white bird with long, frail, elegant feathers, and the brilliant glistening yellow globes that he supposed were meant to mimic olives screamed the word “expensive.”

The two of them were sitting at either end of the long peach sofa. Drops of dawning sunlight stained the waxy carpet through the curtain of palm leaves outside. One rectangular patch gleamed on Anaris’s bare thigh. Dressed in a delicate yellow dressing gown that, if nothing else, produced an indivisible vision of charming vulnerability, the Duchess Castra Ati was curled on her legs with her feet beneath her and her head resting shyly on her outstretched pale wrist, while Lord Anaris, dressed more casually than Kajack had ever seen in a pair of thin black shorts and an immodest black tank top, splayed indecorously. It was absolutely indecent—a truly spooky look into the intimate side of Anaris’s life—and Kajack thought for a moment of just turning and running out.

“No,” the Duchess murmured. “You wound me, Tino.” It was achingly soft.

Lord Anaris’s face was stormy. “I don’t suppose you care to hear what I think.”

“If you pretend for a moment that I do…”

He sighed. “If it is within her power to come home to you, she will, by her own will or another’s.” He was looking at her relentlessly. She did not twitch or blink. One of her eyes was bruised.

“I feel just _awful_ for pushing her so far.”

“Pushing!” said Anaris sharply. “Blood is no excuse. What if you were right? Suppose I did want you dead? Then I might have murdered the girl, and you would be left without a successor. In any case…”

“Blood?” The Duchess’s face was wet. “Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, lip quivering strangely, but she didn’t say anything. She seemed to hover in deliberation. Then she waved one glittering hand and relaxed back. “Nothing for it. She’s alive.”

“I suppose your patron allowed you to scry on her.”

“I’m troubled to bits that she’s found her way in with the Lumen—” Castra spat the name—“but that can be trained out, and it’s better than perishing on the sea.” She laughed and broke the spell. “You’re bleeding again, dear.”

“Damn.” He shook out a cream-colored handkerchief and held it to his wrist. “That elf! Wish I’d gotten their real name. I haven’t felt so alive in years, I don’t mind telling you.” His face went cloudy and dark as he dabbed the blood. The Duchess’s lips crooked upward. A fleck that might have been a teardrop clung to her pale eyelashes. “If I could forget it all and—Raleil, Kajack!”

Anaris didn’t quite leap to his feet. Instead, he started, dropped the bloody handkerchief in surprise, cursed, and impatiently waved Kajack over.

“Come in, boy.”

Kajack obediently trotted forward but went no further than the ugly pear-colored grand piano in the center of the room. He climbed up and sat, cross-legged, on the closed lid. Anaris’s mouth thinned. He said nothing about Kajack’s rich green hair, nor the impropriety of his stolen outfit, but his tense mouth and flared nostrils suggested his waning patience. Good! thought Kajack, blisteringly, burning. Regret what you’ve done to me, for annoyance or whatever else!

“My son,” Anaris said to the Duchess, “likes to pretend that he is still a full-fledged member of the Lumen. It is an embarrassment and a disgrace, but you know how I care about transparency. I don’t mind admitting the boy’s shortcomings in company.” He flexed his foot and yawned. “I,” he said, delicately, “intend to make Kajack a true success story.”

“Really,” said Castra. “Well, it’s all about the allowances you make. For instance, Darla lives with her aunt, which was a concession on my part, but if I’d kept the precious thing in the estate, I do believe she might have murdered me. The system works. Pity,” she added, “you don’t have an uncle or aunt you can ship yours off to.”

Anaris turned his cold bright eyes on Kajack. “Mine hasn’t the guts to murder me.”

Kajack said nothing.

His attention was drawn by a soft squeaking. He looked over to see the human with the pink apron wheeling a rustic serving cart into the drawing room. A pair of slender, folded accent tables scuttled off the cart and waltzed across the room on metal legs like weedy spiders. Balanced on Castra’s was a little forest of parfait dishes and sliced fruits, complete with a selection of hot coffees and orange juices; Anaris had a steaming mushroom omelette, sprinkled with unknown green herbs, on a gilded platter, with tea and coffee. And Kajack, who had specifically sought out and made requests of the human with the pink apron, whose name, he learned, was Edony, received by hand a tiny silver plate covered with a fat silver cloche. He smiled at them. They smiled shyly back and patted their front pocket.

“Ah, breakfast!” the Duchess exclaimed. She curled her hands around the nearest mug and sipped it delicately. “More cream,” she ordered the human, who bowed and produced a thick ceramic jug.

“Good to see the kitchen staff anticipated you,” said Anaris, tiredly, to Kajack. His fork clinked against his golden plate. He hardly looked at the mouthful of egg and mushroom. It went in. He chewed. “I’ve always thought the Anaris staff was the promptest, most reliable, most determined serving staff around.” He raised a finger. “It’s because _I_ anticipate _their_ needs.” He swallowed.

“The Atis have you beat,” said Castra lightly, tinkling the tip of her spoon against her glass ramekin. “Why, my darling servants would do anything for me—even plant false evidence! Oh, it’s not because I pay them well, of course. They just love me.”

Kajack removed the cloche and peeked into his dish. Sitting on the saucer was a single popover, dolloped with jam. A lemon wedge languished in a muggy pool of its own citric effluvium. He released a grateful breath and managed a weak smile at the human servant. They nodded once, comfortingly, and wheeled the serving cart out of the room.

“I remember that,” said Anaris, who now looked uncomfortable. “One of your more harebrained ideas, delegating your cover-ups to people who could ruin you.”

The Duchess smiled against the lip of her orange juice. “Handy, though.”

The lights flickered and went out. Kajack stiffened and sat straight. A little background on the Anaris estate lighting system might help us understand what had happened: most of the golden sconces and torches and chandeliers were powered by a natural, if magical, fire, and the sourceless white lights that hung in the rooms were of pure magic. There was no movement in the chilly gloom from either the Duchess nor Anaris, both of whom were reduced to silhouettes by the light of the window, so Kajack uneasily decided that the outage was a fluke or a random power surge. It lasted nearly a minute. Then the lights swelled again, and the prickling sense of unease that had accompanied their departure vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Odd,” said Castra softly.

Kajack kept a careful eye on Lord Anaris. At one point—the man was waxing about local fancy restaurants and Bellichi investments—his left eye started twitching dramatically, but he showed no outward sign that he was aware of the effects taking hold of his body and brain. His speech became more rapid. Beads of sweat appeared on his temples. His gestures were jerky and unnatural.

Then he stopped and looked at the Duchess strangely, which Kajack took as his cue to slide quietly off the rim of the piano in the background.

“The painting,” Anaris whispered hoarsely. Kajack’s eyes shot to the painting hanging behind the Duchess’s head. It was a detailed, if awfully generic, pastoral vista of tilled farmland. The rows of corn rose straight and clean, every ear identical; a single splotch in the left corner of the piece denoted an iron-red barn, and the sun, hovering like a fat white sac on the right, matched it in size an inch from the acrylic horizon and made the delicate contours of the barn and each cheekily exposed kernel in the foreground shine like colored glass.

“What about it, dear?” said the Duchess lightly.

“Oh!” Anaris creaked. He clutched his chest and toppled over. The Duchess took in a sharp breath. Flattening down her skirt with her hands, she crawled across the couch and pressed her fingers against his bobbing throat. She cried, “Are you ill, my lord?”

“It’s moving, it’s moving,” he gibbered. “The sun, it’s rising!” The sun, of course, was static. It was paint on a canvas. “I can smell it. It’s sucking me in. Horror, heavens, what is happening?”

“I’ll get help,” said Kajack excitedly.

The Duchess flapped her hand at him. “Yes, yes. Get his fool-headed doctor. Nerves, I think. It’s all too much for him.”

Kajack ducked out of the drawing room and walked rapidly southward. Were he to speed straight out the door now, he’d get snatched for sure. Just a little more, Kajack! he told himself. His acting chops would be really powerful here, so he assumed a stricken expression and flapped from chamber to chamber, squalling about the convulsions of Lord Anaris.

Oliver appeared almost instantly. He was drying his fingertips on a small stained handkerchief, which he dropped when he saw Kajack. Kajack clapped his hands on Oliver’s shoulders and squeezed his nails into his crisp suit. Oliver looked at him in dull confusion.

“Oliver!” Kajack said, snapping his fingers in front of Oliver’s eyes. “Hey! Wake up! Something’s wrong with my dad. He started seeing things. You gotta get in there and help him.”

Oliver’s mouth flapped open. “Did you do something?” he said, abruptly enraged. “You hurt him!”

Kajack drew himself up to his full height. “I assume you _jest,”_ he snarled, “but _I,_ the heir to the Anaris estate, will not tolerate such—such— _impudence_ from a mere _serving boy._ How _dare_ you insinuate that I, soon-to-be-Lord Kajack Anaris, would ever harm a fellow gentleman. Umm.” He paused. “Away with you,” he added, self-conscious. “Go see to him.”

Oliver’s eyes cleared. When Kajack looked closer, he realized that Oliver had lost whatever degree of composure he had possessed not half an hour ago. He was dripping with sweat. There was no light in his eyes, and his skin was ashen and sickly. The front of his shirt was rumpled and unbuttoned. His hair was tousled. Most suspicious of all was the unmistakable, half-sponged smear of blood across his lips and chin. He jerked away, eyes widening.

“Yes, sir,” he said, bowing low. “Forgive me for forgetting my place. I will attend to the Lord.” His speech was totally emotionless.

“See that you do,” said Kajack coldly.

Oliver gave him an awful look. He shuffled hatefully into the drawing room.

Kajack licked his lips and rallied. Had he traced both the Molucella and Anaris bloodlines back several hundred years, he would have turned up a startling number of hardnosed private detectives. But this was a new era. He waited until Oliver was out of sight before he wheeled back around and dashed down the hallway.

It was all straightforward from there. He fended off Zhara and Hugearmious—the latter of whom was wrapped in a fluffy blanket with his young strawberry-blonde deckhand, Fulbright, yet still steamed at Kajack resentfully and made him jump—by reciting the casual observer’s version of what had happened. It must have been the spark of truth resonating in his recollection that made the three men leap up and hustle together from the little servants’ chamber. He encountered no more obstacles on his way to the door, and he only had to crouch in a rose bush for three tense minutes before the changing of the guard at the perimeter.

Kajack had escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to:  
> \- Winter for providing Parisa dialogue (and character insight).


	38. The Anaris Estate Unionizes

It wasn’t a bad plan. Kajack kept his head. He was skirting the estate and making preparations to track down his companions or, come hell, wait for them, when he spotted the thin cord swaying from a window at the southern tower. Then he was sent into a hubristic froth because the thought had at last occurred to him that if he were daring, and if he were quick, he probably had just enough time to scramble to the top and recover the elaborate little box containing his needles and hormones from under his bed. Bracelet, sweater, and box: the whole of him! Strictly, it wasn’t necessary. There was a box just like it accumulating dust in the Lumen headquarters now, wrapped in a pillowcase, with two more doses left over, and he felt pretty secure in his belief that the Wish would make up for whatever he might lose in abandoning one as a necessary casualty. But it was his.

Day one of Lumen training had drilled everyone on rope-climbing. Kajack frogged up the tower with the equanimity of a man who had another Feather Fall to spare. When he reached the window, he plunged headfirst through it without hesitation and performed a magnificent somersault that would have gotten cheers, had anyone been around to see.

Huh?

Clearly this was the exam room where Parisa had been held and treated. Those cuffs on the bed were unmistakable.

He sniffed. Blood in the air. Something silvery and wet glinted at him from beneath a rumpled pile of towels. He tiptoed around the bed and went completely still. He felt like a spooked deer. He stooped to her side and felt her pulse and had to leap back with a little shriek. Though still clammy and warm, and tinged with the pasty sweat of exertion, Dr. Taro was dead. For sure.

It fascinated him. Kajack had seen a dead body up close just once before: the dwarf, Torgen, in the Star Spire, when his friends had compelled it to answer questions about the circumstances of its own murder. Liberty’s body bore a cartoonish resemblance to the dead dwarf. Of course, a very recently deceased person has no business showing any superstitious peculiarities, and except for the bloodstain, Dr. Taro could have been asleep. But the body itself was floppy and empty as a doll. It made Kajack’s stomach churn and his eyes water. There was no life in that thing. The cause, a stab wound, was obvious—but not his business!

He bolted up and made a run for it. A dead acquaintance was objectively an even better distraction than the phantasmagoric ravings of the man who kept the payroll, but Kajack found no pleasure in the sight of Kennick White’s only remaining family gone, gone, gone.

He went up the stairs to his room unmolested and felt much better once he had retrieved the box. But he could no longer resist the crawling nausea and the internal mortal panic striving determinedly to realize itself as horror, so, for more than a minute, he huddled on his knees on the marble and retched. Later he would recount seeing himself from a bizarre outside perspective. He buckled the box into a pocket on his pants, hitched himself to his body as his last earthly possession, and endeavored to escape for the very last time.

The hallways were deserted. Even the drawing room hung pale and dead. Its colors were washed-out, like a submerged wedding dress. There was no evidence of the Lord or the Duchess.

His curiosity compelled him more than any measure of hubris or courage. Kajack sniffed. He sniffed. He inhaled deeply. That clogging red-rose perfume meant nothing in this house, since Anaris wore it everywhere, but it was stronger in some hallways than others, so he followed his nose, intent on the smell, veering back and forth when it grew fainter like a hypnotized man. It guided him deep into the dungeons.

He grew excited when he started hearing voices again.

He flung open Anaris’s bedroom door and wilted. Nope. It was as dark and empty of life as it had been the other two times he had visited. But it wasn’t quiet. The curtains around the bed stirred lumpily in the breeze from the door. The quarto book was gone. A repugnant smell of rotting eggs had sort of breathed its way through the room, as if a pipe had burst in the wall, and it wasn’t the bottle of perfume, which had been left uncapped on the armoire. A single red rose petal was stuck to the oil on the lip of the bottle. Kajack wrinkled his nose and capped it.

But the voices were loudest here. For the life of him, he could not trace them any further, so he prowled the room, nearly demented by the cacophany of muffled noise that seemed to be coming from the walls and the ceiling and even from under his feet, until it occurred to him that his pursuit kept circling back around to the ensuite bathroom door.

No, he thought incredulously. They’re not all packed into a bathroom together?

He knew certain types of mushrooms could induce paranoia, but surely it was beyond even a tripping Anaris to entreat his guest and servants to huddle with him in the most intimate room of his house. He went in.

“You’re kidding me,” Kajack said out loud, reflexively.

There was only a gaping hole where the toilet had stood. The toilet itself, now haphazard on its side in the bathtub, looked mournfully out of place. Even its ridiculous filigree golden flush dangled with a degree of reproach. The dark hole in the floor stank of earth and rot. It took up most of the bathroom and was wide enough to admit a minotaur.

No question about it. 

Anaris, in the throes of his psychedelic trip, had convinced his companions to follow him into the sewer.

But we must briefly retire here from Kajack’s narrative, since, while thrilling, his descent into the grimy, malodorous pit after his father’s entourage would be no joy for me to report nor you to read. We will visit instead the brief tale of Edony, the human with the pink apron, who had, at Kajack’s fervent request earlier that morning, drawn a particular symbol on a towel and dangled it from the window of a high tower. They also committed a crime.

> KAJACK Has Lord Anaris eaten breakfast yet?
> 
> EDONY No.
> 
> KAJACK Great. Then I’d also love it if you could make him an omelette with these.  _ [Presenting the MUSHROOMS.]  _ How fucked up can you get my dad?
> 
> EDONY Oh, I can get him  _ real  _ fucked up.

It was Edony who had proposed the all-important code, which went like this: jam if the Delta squad made contact, butter if they didn’t. One lemon wedge if the squad had survived the night in total, two if a friend had been killed. An orange slice if any member of the squad had fallen into Keeper custody. It went on like that. In exchange, Kajack had offered two autographs, which—while of zero personal significance to Edony—were worth enough money among BODE collectors for Edony to get on their feet and start a new life elsewhere. In that exact moment, they were already boarding a cargo ship that would take them to a tiny speck of a city at the tip of the Eaoduinian peninsula. The human with the pink apron was done with Anaris. Would that we could all be.

“Quiet!” Anaris’s cold voice snapped. A very peculiar thing was happening with sound and echo in the sewer main. Even the words stank. “All of you, stop! Stop talking! The killer will hear us, I know it, I know it, he’s down here with us!”

“The only one speaking is you, milord!” The Duchess’s voice was strained. “Hush at once! Mr. Fulbright, be a dear and lay down your coat. Eugh! Look at all this muck! It’s all over my feet, it’s shit, I know it’s shit—”

“Yeh take orders from none but me, boy,” rumbled the unmistakable tone of Hugearmious. “Put yer coat back on. That’s a lad.” The Duchess screamed in disgust.

“You are going against me,” she fumed. “All of you, but particularly Tino. You say you came down here to hide from the killer—I know you are a liar! You have come here to put me to death!” The Duchess seized the orange-haired deckhand’s arm. “Mr. Fulbright, I beg you, stop these men!”

“That’s Monty,” said Fulbright.

“Darla,” the Duchess said. Kajack, who was lurking in the shadows nearby, stiffened. All inflection in her voice had evaporated. She had sort of drawn back up into herself, like a turtle or a snail, and she was looking greedily out at the scene with little tiny eyes, but her emotion had dissipated and she was functionally absent from the assembly.

“That’s Monty,” said Fulbright again. “But I’m glad to see you’re not pretending you don’t know your daughter around ‘polite company’ anymore.” A hand that was rapidly turning strawberry-pink gestured lightly to Oliver and Hugearmious and Luba. For a fraction of a second, the rippling acrid darkness of the sewer erased the creature like a Cheshire cat, leaving only a pair of button-black eyes that hovered madly in the air. “And I’ve finally made up my mind.”

“Careful!” Kajack cried, emerging from the dark. “Monty, she’s worse than we thought—”

“Kajack?” Anaris exclaimed. His eyes were crying-red, and his face was pouring with sweat, but no symptom was more fundamentally worrying than his comportment, which had gone from easy phlegm and emotional distance to complete system malfunction. The man may as well have swapped bodies with one of those snivelling Keeper brats in the training camp. He was clinging to Oliver’s arm and looking about with frightened, harrowed eyes; every so often, he would seize handfuls of the front of his own pants and wail like an animal.  _ “Monty?” _

Monty ignored him. “Ooh! Ooh! ‘Mother of the year’!” she said scornfully to the Duchess. She made to move forward. Hugearmious clamped his great hoof over her head and stilled her. “So you like to cut people’s body parts out! Not just Lord Anaris’s, huh? When Miss Osbourne realized who I was, she sent me a Sending and told me all about what you do. Ma’am, I think not.” She was visibly trembling, but Hugearmious’s big hand absorbed the most obvious tremors. “I think maybe you’ve already cut out enough of ‘me’ to make your  _ point.  _ That’s what it’s about for you, isn’t it?” she added flatly. “Making a  _ point?” _

The Duchess stared at her, outraged.

“While you may be right that my connection to you has political potential,” Monty went on, shoving Hugearmious’s heavy hand away, “I’ve been really tearing myself up over whether I should listen to you or run. Well, madam, the answer is obvious. I get it now. The only language you understand is violence, and I have family members who can vouch for my noble birth and instruct me on how to act just as well as you. So I’m going to do it. And I’ll do it my way.”

“Oh, Luba!” the Duchess howled. She whipped around and made to grab hold of Luba’s shirt, but clearly thought better of it and leapt out of her sister’s reach like an injured cat. “And why  _ are  _ you here, anyhow, auntie?” she yowled. “What brings  _ you  _ to the estate? Planning a little murder, were we, Miss Rasputina!”

Luba sniffed primly. She was half-leaning, half-sitting on a dampened ledge, not remotely bothered. “Intruder broke into my family home while I was sleeping. I speak to Keepers and find my niece has disappeared. Why am I here? For family, of course. Not something you understand.”

The Duchess giggled in a freezing panic. “Family indeed,” she wheezed. “You never did like me! Let’s face it! You couldn’t stand that I was prettier, political, popular, well-liked!” She gasped and stuck her fingers into her red, red mouth. “You tried to kill me! That’s it! You came upon the doctor and thought she was me when the lights went out!” Stricken, she tossed her head around and looked beseechingly from Kajack to Anaris. “I can’t  _ believe  _ a pair of gentlemen like you are content to set me in a filthy hole with my murderer!  _ You! _ You wretched little  _ rat!” _ she shrieked at Luba. “You aren’t even  _ Mestrian!” _

The Duchess burst into tears and balled her fists in her skirt. She turned and ran, running narrowly, like a woman in heels might, the way they’d come. Her bare feet went  _ slop-slop-slop  _ down the muddy corridor of the sewer. In moments, the only trace of her existence—her squishy footprints—had vanished after her into the labyrinth.

Kajack let out a dismal cry and choked it off immediately. Her words were engendering around within him now, maggot-like.

“I think her lady the Duchess is perhaps half right,” said Oliver primly. “Say an unknown party broke into the estate through Dr. Taro’s rooms. Their intention was to murder the Duchess and free the boy. When this party encountered Dr. Taro, they mistook her for the Duchess and killed her.”

Some great hand clamped around Kajack’s force of will and threw him back into gear. “Uh-uh, Oliver,” he said sharply. “I talked to the people who want to kill the Duchess, and I don’t think they’d just stab her once and walk away.”

Oliver mopped his forehead.   


“The prisoner, then,” he offered.

“Parisa wouldn’t,” Kajack said. “You were the one who told me Dr. Taro is a Lumen sympathizer. Parisa is the Lumen ambassador.”

“Well, then. Suppose this killer really is one of us,” Oliver said. He was growing hoarse. “Perhaps one of us tried to get to this unknown intruder, as our loyalty to Lord Anaris would presuppose, and Dr. Taro, for whatever reason, barred us from reaching them. Perhaps we considered it an act of betrayal and stabbed the traitor. Is that not noble?” His forehead was shimmering white. “Is it not a reasonable motive? To want Lord Anaris—er, to anticipate Lord Anaris’s orders, I mean, and defend his estate in his absence?”

“It isn’t!” said Kajack. “He’s your boss, not your husband. And he supports child labor.”

“If what you are suggesting is true, Oliver,” said Anaris icily, “then, while I commend  _ this individual’s _ loyalty to my estate, the ‘noble killer’ you propose has lost me a valuable asset. Where am I to find another doctor?”

Kajack opened his mouth to share the bloodstain he had seen across Oliver’s mouth. Then the atmosphere in the sewer corridor made itself apparent to him, and he really saw the outline of Oliver, tense as a violin string, pale as death, and shuddering, as if all the blood in his body was running down his legs. He closed his mouth. No evidence one way or another would damn nor save Oliver now.

“It ain’t Ollie,” said Zhara.

Luba said a word in a language Kajack did not recognize. She tugged Zhara into her lap and wrapped her big arms around his stocky frame. “They do not have to know.”

Zhara shook his head impatiently. “No more secrets.” He turned his head with the grace of an eagle and looked directly at Anaris. “Boss, I’m not from Mestrus. I faked my paperwork to get here. I needed a job so I could lay low. In two weeks’ time, when my father is put to death by the Keepers at the border, I will ascend to the Gíhereth throne.”

“The  _ what?”  _ Kajack cried. “Huh?”

Zhara’s black eyes flicked over to Kajack. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it,” he said. Something earthy about his manner had fallen away. He sat a little straighter in the dim candlelight, and the white streak in his hair gleamed like a crown. He was older than Anaris, Kajack realized. “The Gíhereth empire was concentrated in the northern peninsula of the Ruby Dunes, but the empire fell long before any of us were born. It is my duty to return it to its former glory.”

“You must elaborate, Mr. Zen,” said Anaris in a clipped voice. “You mean to tell us you are a king?”   
  
“I will be,” said Zhara. He wriggled on Luba’s lap and leaned back comfortably against her chest. “My sibling Ziren wishes the crown for themself. If they kill me, they will become king instead. Ziren broke in, encountered the good doctor on their way to me, and killed her when she tried to alert the household.” He laid it out as a theory, not a fact, but with certainty.

“I thought Ziren was trying to kill the Duchess,” said Kajack, confused.

“That, too. I imagine their desire to put an end to the Duchess is as honest as their desire to kill me.” Ziren turned his cold black eyes on Kajack. “I see exactly where they are coming from. The Duchess is cruel and bigoted. She is sick. She cuts out people’s organs. What, we’re expected to raise a kingdom from the dregs when our next-door neighbor is a fascist fuckin’ hellhole? If I were Ziren, I’d do the same thing. Kill the Duchess. Use the intel I got killing the Duchess to murder the Fuhrer. Drive my boot into the anthill and leave it a mess of scrambling ants. Dogs are happiest when they’re worn out; countries, friendliest when beaten down. If you are strong when my empire tries to rise, you will crush us. If you are weakened, you will strike up trade negotiations. Your cruel leaders will be dead. Ziren always said they couldn’t  _ stand  _ spying for the Lumen, it ate them up inside, just sitting there,  _ watching…” _

“But,” said Monty in a small voice—Kajack, who had forgotten the kid was there and had overlooked her little face peeking out from around Hugearmious’s elbow, stifled a shocked scream—“If you’re a king, then Aunt Luba is…?”

Luba spoke. “Biding my time. Don’t need to be Duchess when I could be Queen. Mind you, I bet I’d be different type of queen than my sister.”

For a second there was no sound but dripping from the pipes.

Then Anaris roared: “Would anyone  _ else  _ in this sewer like to admit they are secretly foreign nobility?”

Hugearmious expelled a hot cloud of steam from his nostrils. All Kajack could see of him was the vibrant rosy glow of his eyes. Anaris moaned, pained.

“Hugo, no. No, man, you’re not—”

“I ain’t,” grumbled Hugearmious. “But I been keepin’ a secret.”

Anaris’s eyes fluttered closed. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“The Masked Moonflower weren’t the one what stole yer necklace. I did.”

Silence.

“What?”

“The necklace yeh was gonna gift to Lady Weivieria o’ Ta’aslé,” said Hugearmious vehemently. “Years an’ years ago. I took it. I saw that thief, the Masked Moonflower, scroungin’ aroun’ in yer valuables and somethin’ came over me and I took the necklace out o’ yer coffer and slipped it on the windowsill where the thief would see so they would git it an’ you couldn’ propose with it.”

Anaris was staring, mouth agape, at Hugearmious.  _ “Why would you do that?”  _ he screamed. “Oliver! I need light!”

Startled, Oliver cupped his hand over his mouth and muttered an incantation. The sewer immediately streamed with dazzling, radiant sunlight, and everyone present, except for Anaris, murmured and squinted in shock. Anaris rose to his feet and thundered across the bright tunnel. Before Kajack could do anything more than rub his eyes, Anaris had snatched Hugearmious’s thick suspenders and was holding them out before him like a pair of whips. “I could  _ kill  _ you right now!”

“Nah, yeh couldn’t,” said Hugearmious coolly. “Yeh ain’t got no men. Zhara won’t do nothin’ now.” He nodded at Zhara. “An’ Oliver can’t. So.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Anaris howled. Kajack had never seen wilder eyes. “I gave you a  _ home!  _ A  _ job!  _ When I found you, you were nothing—a circus animal! How  _ dare  _ you make a—a cuckold of me, you joyless biological freak? You owe me  _ everything!” _

“I owe yeh?” Hugearmious roared. “I owe yeh?” He stood. Anaris, who was still clinging to Hugearmious’s suspenders, rose two feet straight up off the ground. “Yeh could hire me a hunnerd more times an’ I still ain’t beholden to yeh!” Hugearmious brushed Anaris off his chest, and Anaris fell to the sodden, smeared floor, stunned, like a swatted fly. “On’y Anaris who ever treated me right was _him.”_ The minotaur pointed one gigantic, sausage-thick hoof-finger at Kajack, who jerked with surprise. “I treated ’im terrible and banged ’im up an’ scared the life outta the miserable little fruit an’ ’e still saved me when ’e coulda let me drown. There was nothing in it for ’im. Still ain’t. That’s a good man.”

“Why did you do it?” Anaris asked again. His voice was pathetic. Oliver had run to him and was kneeling by his side, clasping his pale hands in his own.

“Give ’er an out,” Hugearmious answered cryptically. “She didn’ wanna marry you. Good woman. Good halfling. I do what she says. Her wizard woman cast a spell on me tonight an’ I heard her voice say what to do. Said, ‘Miss Weivieria says, Bring Miss Montgomery into the house disguised as yer sailor. That will keep her safe and we will know where she is.’ I did.” He clapped his gigantic hoof onto Monty’s shoulder. The tendons in his great red neck became tense and thick. “Now, don’ get ideas in yer head. Monty ain’t guilty. She been with me the whole time.” His voice rang like a gong. “Oliver, stand up, yeh look like a fuckin’ fool.”

Oliver searched Anaris’s wan face, tracing his cheek with his thumb. He looked helplessly over at Kajack, who was staring between him and Hugearmious and Zhara and Luba in breathless, delighted anticipation. Then he swallowed and released Anaris’s hands and stood. He cleared his throat. He brushed mud-and-worse off his knees and raised his chin high.

“Oliver,” said Anaris quietly.

_ “Yes, _ Oliver!” Kajack cried, punching the air. He’d half-expected Oliver to kiss Anaris, but this was better.

Anaris clenched his teeth and switched his focus back to Hugearmious. “Well, go on, beast!” he cried. “Lay it all out! How else have you betrayed me? I don’t suppose you’ve been sleeping with Castra on the side, hmm? Because I  _ can’t?”  _ He looked animalistic. His sweat had matted his hair down into a wild greying clump, and his face was spasming so violently it was hardly recognizable as human. He shuffled backward on his elbows. “And you can! You can!”

“Wow,” murmured Kajack.

“Me personal life aside, I think we oughter focus on the murder,” said Hugearmious levelly. “An’ while it’s obviously Oliver who put down the doctor…” He sniffed down the tunnel into the swath of darkness. “I wonder who’s ’bout to kill the Duchess?”

A scream is a scream. The fizz, the verve, the brio, the sparkle, all unique, comes from the person behind it. Castra Ati’s brilliant example ripped through the musty air.

Hugearmious’s great lip slid up to reveal his teeth. “Game on, Val,” he roared.


	39. The Labyrinth

Whenever Kajack couldn’t sleep, he would slip deep, deep down into the world beneath the blankets and try little experiments on the sigil on the back of his hand. Its presence bothered him. It was a unique interruption in the smooth and sometimes pocked surface of his flesh. Kajack would scratch his thumbnail along its twists and turns as if it were a map, and its slender coils delineated tunnels and pathways, or a sleeping creature, and its curves were breathing. He thought scratching and picking at it might activate it, like how Monroe used to do to their shoulders and breasts.

Mostly it lay dead on his hand.

Now it glowed green. It was brighter than ever. He held it up like a flashlight and raced down the tunnel after Anaris, who had taken off—not in the direction of the Duchess’s scream, curiously, but away from it—deeper into the sewer main. Kajack’s sandals were grimy. A horrible itchy rash was creeping up his ankles where the black gunk had touched his skin.

“Ugh!” he said to himself. “Five years ago, I did  _ not  _ see myself here!”

And then he believed, in a splash of perfect certainty, that his friends were close by. It lasted a heartbeat and felt exactly as if the sun had broken through storm clouds and warmed him, but all over. The feeling faded. Kajack whipped his head around the dark passage. Had he imagined it? “Luma?” he mouthed, hardly daring to raise his voice. “Marlon?”

Well, fuck, he thought. He’d lost Anaris’s trail. It was so hard to breathe in the pressing, living stench of the sewer channel, let alone sniff out the trail of roses, and even his darkvision did little against the sulfurous haze of the sewer, so that was two senses gone. As Kajack explored his environment, he discovered he was actually lost, like, for real, in the interweaving web of sewer pipes.

“Luma?” he cried. “Marlon? Kretz? Larkren? Umm, not that I’m going by favorites!”

The sewer simply snatched his voice away. It didn’t even echo in here anymore. Kajack was not afraid, but it was so dumb that he was here at all. Why had he run after Anaris? It was pure instinct. He’d seen Anaris turn, and some awful tug in his heart had ripped him forward, half out of his body, after the vanishing form.

Prey, he thought. I am hunting him.

The thought beckoned him forward. He began to stalk through the tunnels like a big cat, pawing along the dripping floor, muffling his footsteps the way little children play by stepping lightly on sand.

It went on for a quarter of an hour. He stopped. He identified in the darkness ahead the unmistakable outline of a long and lanky human shape standing against the mouth of a tunnel.

It was so startling to see another figure in the disgusting dripping dungeon that the only thing he could think to say was “Hail, traveler!”

The figure turned. “Where is she?” it hissed. “Yes, you, you dolt! Where’s the Duchess?”

“Whoa, back off,” cried Kajack, putting both hands up in front of him. “How am I supposed to know? I thought you and your scary friends killed her already!”

Ziren slapped the flat of their blade against their hand and stared at Kajack with the same remorseless black eyes of the Daughter of Talu. Their features were angular and very narrow. The whites of their eyes were freezing cold. “I told them not to,” they said stridently, “kill her immediately. The plan is to keep her alive long enough to interrogate her. I didn’t learn  _ nothing  _ from the Lumen. Now tell me if you’ve seen her, or you’re worse than useless to me,  _ princeling.” _

Kajack gulped. “I can see why Kennick was so ready to betray you!” He reached for his weapon and remembered too late that Zhara had divested him of his knife when he’d been searched. “How’d you even know she switched sides, anyway? I didn’t see you on the roof!”

Ziren’s lip lifted over their teeth. “Hello?  _ Hello?  _ Use your brain. Our wizard’s familiar is a bat. I had her watching the whole time to make sure that bitch Kennick would keep her word.” They huffed out a cruel little laugh. “Watch out, boy! Or your taste in friends will get you stabbed in the back someday!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s real nice, coming from you!” cried Kajack, insulted.

Ziren lunged at him.

Later, Kajack would make it sound like it was a fair fight. He would brag that he got in a few punches. But there really is no contest between a weaponless bard and a remorseless ranger with a thousand knives hidden all over their body. In seconds Kajack was flat on his back on the sticky black floor. Even if Ziren hadn’t been pressing the heel of their boot into his throat, he would have been able to summon very little will to move under their glassy eyes. He was terrified.

“Say goodbye, brat.”

Kajack choked. “No!” he breathed. “Ugh! You’re such a fuck! Don’t do this!”

“Don’t do this,” Ziren said coldly. “As if I have a choice. You think I care about the son of a Mestrian lord—beyond what information he can give me, that is? What makes you think I won’t do the same thing to you that I’ll do to the Duchess?”

“Luma,” Kajack rasped. He could hardly force the word through his lips. “Luma.” He miserably sucked in breath. He knew they were near! He could not see them. Whatever sense it was that told him of his friend’s presence wasn’t sound or sight or smell or taste or touch. Every time he said their name, the symbol on his hand throbbed urgently. The green lines had come alive and were pinching into the flesh of his hand. “Luma—”

“Luba?” Ziren said. They stomped their other foot on the floor by his ear; he nearly vomited from the increased pressure on his throat. “That selfish bitch who wouldn’t put a leash on her little sister? Gods, you freak, she’s not coming for you! She’s already heading for the desert with my spineless drip of a brother. It makes me so  _ angry  _ when siblings give each other a pass because, oh, they’re ‘family,’ as if that makes their flaws any more  _ palatable—” _

“Zhara said you’re trying to kill him.” He forced the question through his windpipe. “Why?”

_ “Why?”  _ Ziren mocked. “Schaal, I want to  _ rule, _ that’s why! I want my empire to rise up healthy and strong. It’s not going to happen if the ascendant king would debase himself for the Mestrian upper class every day just to  _ lay low.  _ I’m braver than my brother,” they added sourly. “I’m willing to do the hard thing! It’s why I joined the Lumen. Some resistance group!”

He saw a thin glow.

Kajack summoned his strength. “My brother tried to kill me,” he croaked. He extracted his hand from the muck and tried to wriggle a finger between his throat and Ziren’s boot. It only intensified the force. “Do you—” He choked and had to whistle in another painful breath. “Do you want to know what happened to him?”

Ziren tossed their braid scathingly and looked down at him. “I’ll humor you,” they sneered, “you ugly little rat. What happened to him?”

The timing with which the squiggly dagger pumped through Ziren’s throat and protruded out the other side, spraying Kajack with hot red life, was sublime. It was deliverance. Ziren’s eyes bulged out so far Kajack could see the whites. Pure disdain passed over their face before their expression went blank. And then—

“Ugly!” repeated a rich, warm, lightly accented, heart-meltingly familiar voice, in pure disgust. “Ugly! Kajack, are you hearing this? What do we do with people who hit us where it hurts?” A lovely long hand encircled Ziren’s throat and elegantly whipped the blade back out. A torrent of blackish blood spurted from the hole. “Hit them back.”

Kajack felt for his crushed windpipe and cast Cure Wounds on himself. The delicate workings of his throat knitted together until all he felt was an intense soreness. When he could speak again, he cried, “Luma, Luma!” and could not think of a word more profound, over and over. At last, he struggled to his knees and whimpered, “Um, not that I’m not overjoyed to see you, but we’re gonna get in trouble with Kretz. He wanted them alive.”

Luma offered a hand. Kajack took it. He had to fight the urge to pepper it with kisses.

“It’s nothing a good Heal can’t fix,” said Luma coolly.

Although Ziren was on their knees, both hands clamped in a death grip around their own throat, forehead bowed to the muddy floor of the passage, they were indeed gasping weak, wet, ragged breaths.

Luma pulled Kajack into a quick hug and inspected him all over. “Are you all right?”

“I’m spectacular,” said Kajack, and meant it. “Did you see where my dad went? And, um, do you know where the Duchess is?”

“No to both. That way—” They pointed down a dripping passage dangling with a heavy black curtain of moss—“is a manhole cover we pried open. We saw the spy and their mercenaries climbing into a sewer drain. That friend of yours is coming in handy, Kajack. She told us what she knows about Ziren and what we might expect from them.” Luma paused. “She also asked me to pass on her regrets and grief at the death of ‘Momma L.’—does that mean anything to you?” He nodded. “Then I’m sorry for your loss, truly.”

He didn’t want to think about it. “Did you guys get in contact with Parisa?”

Luma displayed their squiggly knife.

“Oh! Of course you did!” He felt instantly better. “Okay. So I don’t know how many people are down here anymore, but you’d better watch out for the big minotaur. If you see him again, just shout at him that you’re on me and Monty’s side. I saved his life, and he never paid me back, so it might work!”

“Got it,” said Luma. “Kajack…”

He winced. “I got my own stuff to resolve! You guys can, um, handle the mission.” He flapped a hand at Ziren. “But, like, jeez, Luma, if I don’t yell some sense into my dad, or at  _ least  _ make him realize that he’ll never, ever know me, I’ll always be wondering what I should’ve done. So I have to do this.”

“Good luck,” said Luma kindly.

Be brave, Kajack! “Thank you!” he cheered. “You, too. I know you said you don’t know which way he went, but do you have any cool tips?”

Luma shook their head. “This one’s a ranger, though, no? Perhaps they can help you.”

Kajack gasped. “You’re such a smart cookie! Yes, O-M-G, what a great idea!”

“Is it?”   
  
“Okay, you grapple them, Luma,” he said brightly, “and I’ll heal them just enough to keep them alive.” Dipping lightly into the tired magic again, he reached for Ziren’s flank and cast another Cure Wounds. Ziren winced, stiffening, and slowly withdrew their hands from around their throat. A single thin membrane of red flesh had blossomed over the hole. They tried to talk and shuddered horribly and put a bloody hand over their forehead.

Kajack squatted next to them. “Okay, so, if you were trying to find Lord Anaris, which way would you go? Be careful how you answer, because I can totally undo what I just did.”

Ziren glared at him.

“What if I tell you that I completely support tearing down the Ivory Coast and redistributing everyone’s wealth?” Kajack coaxed. “And that includes my father’s?”

Ziren rolled their eyes and pointed down the rightmost channel. With one weak hand, they gestured meaningfully at half a footprint and a torn piece of cloth dangling from a broken crossbar, neither of which Kajack had seen.

“Perfect!” he crowed. He leapt up. “I’ll remember this! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Goodbye, Luma! And good luck!”

The channel was much narrower and shorter than the environment Kajack had hitherto been exploring. Kretz might have stood comfortably, but Kajack had to stoop low, pressing his hair down from the gross ceiling with both hands. It was a tight squeeze. It was not something Kajack liked to remember. The version he told to friends was sanitized. He preferred the adaptation that was funny and did not betray how the horror overtook him and the tears rose to his eyes, and that went on for long enough afterward that he began to believe himself. In the moment it was miserable.

He crept down the tunnel, sticking to the high ridged calcified sides and avoiding the splashy black stream in the center, and listened hard. One voice. He pressed himself along the wall. Two voices. He squatted low and peered around the edge of a grated passageway, cupping his hand under his shirt to hide the glow.

“Must you, dear?” sighed Osbourne. 

Noose was hunched over a mass of red and white. She looked like a vulture. “Do you want the body to get investigated or nah? I gotta cut ’er up.”

“It’s just that the look on your face is positively unsettling. Er, or should I say ‘negatively’?”

Scoff. “You told me you like this look on me. You said it was exciting and thrilling.”

Pause. “Yes, I did.” Osbourne sounded like she was smiling. “Well, hurry it up. I don’t suppose you have a plan—”

“Shark chum,” said Noose bitterly. “At least she’s good for something!”

“Darling, I meant Ziren. What are we telling Ziren? As I recall, they wanted to interrogate her first, and I know they wanted to kill her themself.”

“We tell ’em there’s two of us and one of them. What are they gonna do, not pay us? Shocker. I don’t care about payment. And I know you’re all set up with that pretty tiefling lady over the border.”

Osbourne smiled. “Really, Noose, can you blame me? I’ve lived a long life.”

“Didn’t say anything.” Now Noose sounded embarrassed. She stood and smacked her hands together and against her trousers, wringing them free of clumps of gore. “Help me here.”

With Osbourne’s help, she heaved a bulging sack stained so dark with blood it may as well have been full of mud or ink around her shoulders and staggered down the passage.

Kajack swallowed hard. The scene was macabre enough to truly disturb him. He pinched his nose to free himself of the boiling scent of fresh blood and gasped sewer-air into his lungs. Kajack! he thought to himself, frightened. Get it together. But there was some reassurance in knowing that the Duchess would never take another victim. It was done.

There was a tiny circle of light at the top of the pipe above him. He braced his legs against either side of the wet wall and shimmied up. It narrowed as it went; he contorted himself, twisting his body into the tiny space and gasping, worming deeper up the slick tunnel, until he reached the top and broke into candlelight.


	40. Anathema

Kajack did not recognize the washroom. It was the smell of vanilla, and the uncomfortable wispy lighting, and the bright pink and white towels and fluffy bathrobes, that clued him in. Even the lit circular mirror, magnified and clownish, carried with it an impalpable suggestion of to whom it belonged.

So this was the Ati estate! Kajack crawled out of the filthy pipe. He flopped onto the fluffy clean pink bath mat, heaving gasps of his first clean air in hours.

He became aware of another presence in the room. It was Anaris. He had taken his shirt off and was shaking it under a thin stream of water in the sink. No. Kajack looked closer. Anaris was standing perfectly still. It was his body that was trembling, all over.

“The Duchess is dead,” said Kajack.

Anaris’s nostrils flared out. “Don’t you tell me that, boy. It’s bad enough that you drugged me. Now you must lie to me?”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh.’ Funnily enough, I pieced together what must have happened when the world stopped melting.” He threw his shirt into the sink with a wet  _ thwap.  _ “You want to know something, Kajack? I’m not even angry. It was resourceful. I must say, I never knew you were willing to stoop to such a… personal violation.”

Kajack said, wavering, “The Duchess is dead. I watched them cut her up down there.” He pointed at the floor. “And Zhara’s sibling stood on my neck and nearly killed me.”

Anaris looked at him.

“You’re covered in blood,” he said, no longer indifferent. He moved toward Kajack. “She didn’t cut out a—a part of you, did she—?”

“It’s not my blood,” said Kajack. “And she doesn’t care about me.”

“Get undressed,” said Anaris immediately. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m your father. You’re covered head-to-toe in blood and shit. I presume you were the sister, which means I washed your brother for a year. I can wash you, too. I’m not afraid.”

Stunned and hurt, Kajack uncertainly reached for the buttons of his shirt. He turned away automatically as the shirt came off. There was no use in protesting, for he was already naked; except for his bracelet, he kept just one object with him—the cherry-wood box—and held it close to his chest as he stepped into the bathtub. Anaris flicked the faucet.

“You just hate that I’m getting your evil ex-girlfriend’s bathroom dirty,” Kajack said over his shoulder, and his voice shook.

“She wasn’t my ex, which I’m given to understand is moot now anyway, and this isn’t about  _ appearances,  _ Kajack,” Anaris spat. “For goodness’ sake, I’m not some villain in a story! Must you always assume the worst of me? I’m your father. I thought you wanted me to take care of you. That’s why you came to me all those years ago.”

Whatever Kajack had wanted, it wasn’t the excruciating feeling of being cared for, not from someone who diametrically repelled him, and for most of the bath he became frantic and hateful that he was getting in the way of something that could had been meaningful and was clearly intended to be meaningful and would have been meaningful had he not come at it with his spiteful half-human heart scratching at the furniture and springing away from any open hand and proudly disappearing into another room, tail high, to avoid a man who had apparently relinquished the haughty vibration between them long enough to do the human thing and clean his son. Kajack could not be cleaned. He sat in the dirty bathwater and fumed and glared and flinched away whenever Anaris came at him with the washcloth.

“What’s wrong?” Anaris asked, exasperated, rocking back.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kajack said levelly. He was coiled up into a ball in the tub where Anaris could see neither chest nor groin, nor any other part of his body, though, now, as he reflected, it hardly mattered. “I’m fine.”

Anaris was transparent, as usual. He laughed caustically and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t know what you want, boy! Yes, I know the situation is awkward, but I’m trying, aren’t I?” Drip. Sploosh. He was, and Kajack wasn’t, which made it worse. “Would you rather I let you clean yourself up? Or call one of Castra’s servants and explain our intrusion, then leave you in their care? Seriously! Would you! I would give you that.”

Kajack, who now wanted to scream and bang his fists like a wicked wild animal, said nothing. He looked at Anaris coldly and squeezed his knees closer together.

“Now let me take care of the blood,” said the man who thought he knew Kajack. “Your face is spattered with it. Let me wash your face.”

“I don’t want you to know me.”

“That’s harsh,” said Anaris, seizing onto this embarrassing desire like a greedy child. “You know me. I told you personal things about my body—things only my household knows.” He cupped a handful of water and rubbed it down Kajack’s cold back. “I wasn’t there for your birth,” he said, in a different tone. “I never got to hold you in my arms. I read about skin-to-skin contact. I know how important it is to form a connection with your baby, and I never got that with you.”

“Whose fault was that?”

“For the record, I didn’t know she was pregnant when I left.” Anaris lifted Kajack’s arm to wash, if Kajack’s face pointed north, the southwestern side of his ribcage. He handled the Lumen tattoo as though it were an open wound.   


“But you left Morgan,” Kajack said. “He was one year old.”

“I tried to take Morgan with me.”   


A cold and violent feeling very close to hunger seized Kajack. “And you were going to give him  _ this?”  _ he said sharply.  _ “This  _ life? You were going to do to him what you tried to do to me?” An awful nauseating tingling began in his cheeks. “Dad, did I have another sibling?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You ought to know the timeline of when I met your mother. It was only the two of you I managed to sire, and may the gods be content with that. Now turn your head so I can get the blood out of your ear.”

He turned his head.

Anaris pumped the golden handle by the faucet until a trickle of water came out. He patted encrusted blood from the inner curves of Kajack’s ear with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “If you tell me you used to do this for my mother, I will stab you in the mouth,” Kajack said vehemently.

“I didn’t,” said Anaris.

“Why not?” Kajack spat. _ “I _ did. Did you love her or not?”

Anaris said nothing. The washcloth was warm, and the soap smelled faintly like vanilla, which visited upon Kajack the murky little-boy memory of giggling at the texture and scent of the Duchess’s cold satin skirts.

He closed his eyes. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t have children,” he said. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

Anaris paused.

“Yes, I know.”   
  
Kajack swallowed. “I know you do, but how?”

“I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the concept, Kajack,” said Anaris, and then he waited, as if he were proud of himself. “I’ve known trans people before.”

“I am going to kill you,” Kajack said at once. “I am going to rip your head off with my hands. I  _ hate  _ you. I  _ hate you!  _ I am going to  _ kill  _ you!” His whole body was shaking, and vomit was rising in his throat. “When I am  _ dead  _ I will hate you!”

Anaris raised an eyebrow. “And you would owe this reaction to…?”

“So, what? What?  _ What? _ I’m supposed to believe that just because you know people like me, you can know me? No! You don’t! You can’t! You  _ won’t!”  _ he screamed. He only became aware that he was trembling when the dripping of his wet hair into the tub became a rapid patter. “When  _ we  _ don’t even know us! You don’t get to know. The whole time, you knew! I wish the people you knew hadn’t told you. I wish you were dead.”

Anaris looked wounded. “I only became aware of you just now, when you crawled up through the pipe. I’d been curious how you could both be boys when your mother’s letters overtly stated that she had a boy and a girl.” He had risen and was backing away toward the door. “One of you must have transitioned, I understood this, but I assumed it was your brother. I promise, Kajack, I promise you, I have not been tormenting you for no reason. Had I known, I would have let you go.”

It stung. It stung more than anything else. “You would have let me go,” Kajack repeated flatly.

“And I will,” Anaris coaxed. “Today. Right now, if you wish. You won’t have anything more to do with me. This is not a trick. You are free.” He reached into the pocket of his thin black shorts and pulled out the same little quarto copy of  _ The Weeping Lily  _ that Kajack had seen around his bedroom. “First, I have a gift for you. I have been rereading it. Perhaps you will appreciate it more than I ever could. It was your mother’s, you see, and—”

Kajack bolted up in the bath and faced him. He was breathing rapidly. “Bull _shit!”_ he yelped. He hesitated. “I’ll take the book,” he said, with glacial dignity, “because it was my mother’s, but don’t let me go. Don’t you _dare!_ If you let me go, for _that,_ I swear I will kill you!”

“What? What? What am I supposed to do? That’s all you want! That’s all you’ve wanted since the beginning!”

“I don’t want you to  _ give it to me!” _ Please, Kretz, he prayed, don’t walk in through the door. Please, Luma, restrict your intervention to when I need it. I don’t want anyone else to know about this. He peeled himself out of the bath and stormed toward Anaris, naked, as the saying goes, as a baby; and dripping with light, backlit as he was by the candles. “I would rather kill you here,” he declared, “now, with my own hands, and take my freedom by force than debase myself by letting you free me.” It was repellant to him. He refused understanding with Anaris. He refused it!

“And, what?” Anaris cried, clutching the book close. “Lose the rest of your family?”

“Lose the  _ worst  _ of my family!”

_ “I’ve _ never murdered anyone,” Anaris sneered. “Your mother never murdered anyone, to my knowledge. Your brother Morgan—what happened to him? Think, Kajack. When you have killed me, will I really be the worst?”

What a beautiful shining dagger! Morgan had simply walked into the room with it, point out, as if the easiest thing in the world was to stab your brother, and it had been. And, for some reason, though the scuffle had lasted no more than fifteen seconds in pitch black windowless nighttime, perfect clarity of memory granted Kajack an image of the room streaming with perverse sunlight, for it was a fact that Morgan’s teeth and shiny forehead had both gleamed white and square in the black sun. We have two brothers here and both of them get what they want. My gods, does Morgan get what he wants. And the worst of the guilt was not the death. A man who has never killed cannot understand the mortified intimacy of murder. One brother says to the other: Can I borrow it, please? I promise I won’t break it. I know it’s yours, but will you share it? I only need it long enough to kill my father.

“That’s not for either of us to decide,” said Kajack hoarsely. “And whichever of us is better or worse,  _ my  _ friends have known me for centuries, and they will come with me into the next life. You?” In a flash, he produced a glob of spit and spat it onto Anaris’s face. Maybe he was more injured than he’d thought, for there was a round speck of blood dotting the center like an egg yolk. Anaris clawed at his eye hysterically. “You will die alone!”

Kajack pounced. He snatched the play out of Anaris’s hands and shoved it under his naked arm with the cherry-wood box. Then he ran.

He was completely unfamiliar with the layout of the Ati estate. For a flash the bright yellow wallpaper dazed him. He startled a maid. She screamed and dropped a laundry basket full of clothes she was toting to the stairs. A butler stiffened and made to grab him with hands as big as hams. He hardly even saw them. All that lay before him was the future.

“Kajack!” Anaris roared.

Kajack had the presence of mind to tear down handfuls of the gauzy red curtains by the front door and tie them around himself like a dress. Then he was out! He had kicked open the ornate double doors and stumbled through! He fled down the pale lawn, burning-red fabric streaming out behind him, and shredded the expressions of several topiary hedges with the force of his scrambling hands and limbs as he scaled them.

He vaulted a high cream-colored wall and was brought to a shuddering halt—

—by the morning traffic. Little wrought-iron carriages pulled by ponies and white horses trotted leisurely down the street, all interwoven by gliding bicycles with high seats and huge front wheels.

Kajack’s was the sort of plan that never went farther than the next step. The very little he had in mind demanded he reach the Anaris estate. His body was aflame. He ignored the small crowd of murmuring, puzzled gentlemen staring at him and mercilessly combed his eyes through the street for any useful resource.

“Lund!” he squeaked. He’d sighted the old balding newsboy coasting down the main lane of traffic on a big clunker of a bicycle! Lund had a paper open against his handlebars and was perusing it even as he swerved, hardly watching where he was going, between coaches and open carriages.

Lund was thinking about breakfast. Certainly he did not think anything remotely exciting was going on in the sewers below. He had one perfect wrist for paper-throwing; he’d been doing it all his life, and floating around his brain that morning was a lazy little harrumph of a desire to put his wristly talents to more use, say, in a competition for paper-throwers. He was mostly divorced from the world around him. And he would have remained content in ignorance had the damp, half-naked green-haired creature not dropped from the awning of a nearby hair salon and landed with a great rocky thump on the back of his bike.

“Oof!” cried the old man. The newspaper he was reading jolted away from the impact and sailed like a seagull behind him into the throng of horse-and-carriages. He veered all over the place and narrowly avoided crashing into three consecutive pedestrians. His bike shot over a construction ramp and bounced into a sluice of faster traffic.

“Don’t worry!” Kajack panted. “I’ll get off at the Anaris estate! Just let me know when we’re there!”

Lund decided right there and then that he needed a great deal more excitement in his life. Perhaps he’d seek out an adventure as an amateur detective or, awooga, even a lusty new job at the fire department. He cackled as he snatched a pair of green goggles from his pocket and buckled them over his head for maximum speed. “You got it, youngster!”

The chunky bicycle refused obstacles. It tore heedlessly through a crowd of Bellichi morning joggers. Lund’s feet blurred on the pedals. Extraordinary! he thought. I’ve still got it! He recalled the days when he was a ratty little punk in the poorer neighborhoods of Durnatelle, doing wheely tricks in the alleyways for cheap coin. The coup had done away with all that. He ignored the shouts and blaring horns around him and greedily embraced the handlebars.

“Son, d’you mind if I throw my papers?” he yelled.

“Go for it!” Kajack cried. “Go, go, go!”

Tomorrow’s paper would include a segment about a rogue unidentified bicyclist who terrorized the beachside suburbs by launching projectiles at unwary drivers and pedestrians. Though he would never know this, Lund broke several speed records.

It was his downfall. He never saw the treeline coming. Uh-oh! was the last thing Lund thought before he crashed his ancient bicycle into a thick grey tree trunk and lost consciousness.

Kajack was catapulted straight up into the air and landed ungracefully in a flower bush. A minute passed. He crawled out onto the lawn, spitting out thorns, and slithered over to check the old man’s pulse.

(Do not fear for Lund. In less than twenty minutes, he would be awoken by the handsomest members of the fire brigade.)

“Oh my gods, he’s dead,” Kajack sobbed.

“Halt!”

And then Kajack realized where he was.

“I’m supposed to be here!” he shouted at the Anaris guards, who had all moved to block him. “Jeez! I’m your boss’s son! Don’t you recognize me? The guy who keeps trying to  _ escape  _ from this place?”   
  
He reflected, as he was frog-marched into the building, that he actually hadn’t tried to escape that much. The Anaris household’s gravitational pull had kept him close. Now his father’s right hands were all scattered to the winds and would answer to Anaris for neither money nor love. Not even Oliver, who, as Kajack understood it, had come to recognize the irreparable infringements done to him by a man who took everything for granted. And Anaris had intruded upon the one last bastion of privacy Kajack had. What was equivalent to that robbery of self?

He did the only thing he could think to do.

“You’d think someone with that many queens would understand the phrase ‘golden rule’!” said Kajack, to no one.

He began by dragging and dumping a pile of the most inflammable objects he could find into a big pile in Anaris’s study. A big airy chair. A wooden globe. Stacks of boring-looking paperwork. A bottle of acetone from the washroom. A bottle of alcohol, which he shook, uncorked, and sprayed like a fire extinguisher at the hateful desk. As Kajack dropped a candle into the puddle of congealing brandy, he loudly said, “Whoops!”

Whoops, indeed. The young flames took hold and crept along the rug.

He stumbled, like a man underwater, to the kitchen.

“Out! Out! Everybody out!” he roared, kicking down the door. Then he screamed and hopped around, clutching his bare foot; through watering eyes, he shouted at the young gnomish girl, who was watching him closely, open-mouthed; “Fire! Get out of the house! Evacuate everyone!”

It was already spreading fast. Billowing black acrid smoke was rushing down the hallways faster than Kajack could dash up and down the stairs. He freed the sick bird in the drawing room; it screeched like a harpy and vanished in a puff of white mist. He ran to Castra Ati’s guest room— “I  _ know!” _ he cried contemptuously, squirming past the guard, who had, at his approach, reflexively extended himself over the doorway like a big spider; “Everything’s on  _ fire!  _ Get the fire department!”—and unchained the little cage with the fluffy pink puffball bird. It hopped around excitedly on its perch. Sensing the open passage, it tumbled out and floated around his head once, cooing in a voice that was almost human, before flapping to the open window with the delicate, weighty motions of a fairy. He watched it go with a tight pain in his chest.

The library!

Kajack stormed within himself. All the resources the world was about to lose, and all because he’d been reckless and hungry for vengeance! He floundered to the hallway and, retching on a spume of smoke that shot out from a vent and billowed around his face, climbed the stairs. He had to grip the railing with both hands. He burst into the sunlight. There it was. The floating library.

The world up here was frozen with new dawn and mountain chills from the north. He could already see flecks of red-orange ashes floating up around his bare feet as he ran across the slats of the fragile suspension bridge.

He burst through the doors.

A half-dozen academics clustered around a wide circular table had been heatedly arguing over the literary significance of, by pure coincidence, the character of the Ghost in  _ The Weeping Lily,  _ but at his entrance they stopped and frowned up at him.

Kajack clutched his red curtain-dress around him shyly. “Um! Hello!”

One of them coughed.

“So…” said Kajack, “do you guys know what’s been, like, going on today?”

The freckled librarian in the wheelchair came over. “Did you know that you are practically naked?” she said conversationally.

“Excuse me! How do you know this isn’t just the new seasonal look!” said Kajack, embarrassed. “Okay, so, listen, Dr. Taro has been murdered, and basically the estate is on fire, but it isn’t my fault. You guys have gotta grab your rarest books and get out. Do you need help getting down?”

“Ah, I see. Thank you for the warning,” said the lady. She had a peculiar nasal voice. “As you have seen, our library is magically anchored in the air and is separated from the estate. It is unlikely that our chamber will catch fire, particularly because it is made of—”

Kajack stopped listening. He fretfully pressed himself against the windows of the library and peered out at the innocuous tall towers, some of which, he imagined, had already begun to fog with smoke.

The lady librarian went on. “—most serious consequences to the building will come from weakened infrastructure and incidental water damage from the pipes. We’ll quarantine here with the books to avoid the worst of it. Excuse me, I realize that you have covered yourself, but you are so naked right now, and you’re making everyone here very uncomfortable. Would you like to cover up?”

Kajack remembered that nudity didn’t usually function as poetic symbolism when applied to real life and felt very embarrassed again. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

The librarian’s name was Beriot. She fetched a set of dusty scholar’s robes from under the front desk. Kajack barely glanced at them, wrinkled his nose, and declined. There were some lines he couldn’t cross. “Fine,” said the librarian impatiently. “Kajack, was it? Don’t try to go back through the house. I’ll teleport you to the ground free of charge.”

She had him stand perfectly still. Another academic traced a chalk circle on the floor around him, muttering an occult incantation. He closed his eyes.

“Go,” whispered Beriot.

A pressure clamped around Kajack’s forehead, waist, and lower jaw. The force was like a vice around a grape. His panic returned. Then the stuffy air of the library left his lungs, and his bare toes touched sun-warmed soil, and a long, golden strand of grass weaved between his feet.

From the top of a hill, completely alone, clutching a book and a box to his chest, swathed in thin, rich red, Kajack watched the Anaris property fall. It was the first time he had ever beheld the estate in its entirety. Many of the windows had gone gold. Soon it crumbled, shook, and bled, and the entire main tower, which contained the ballroom, the study, the kitchens, the drawing room, the handfuls of powder-rooms, the bedrooms, and everything, in other words, but the botanical garden, the library, and the doctor’s towers, tilted on a hinge, ripping up layers of dungeon beneath it like a tree tearing its roots from the earth; the black stones from which the estate blossomed like an ugly, bloated white flower snapped and fragmented under the destabilized estate as it shuddered apart and crumbled stone by stone and pillar by pillar into dust.

Kajack gazed at the ruin, transfixed. He was still watching when the house emitted an ominous audible wail, and, with one final scream of metal, glass, and stone, disintegrated, as if an invisible giant were pressing on it from the heavens and flattening the whole place into the sea.


	41. Rhea's Letters

He didn’t get around to reading  _ The Weeping Lily  _ until a month later. Guiltily aware that it would collect dust in his trunk of books for probably years, he lent it to Bart, who devoured it at first but soon became uncomfortable. He went up to Kajack’s room and rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “Hey, Kajack,” said Bart, muffled, through the door. “Are you busy?”

“Um, maybe? What do you need?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to pry, but it’s just that I found some letters in this book you gave me.”

Kajack had never peeled himself away from Marlon and attacked the door so fast in his life. The first letter went like this:

> Valentino,
> 
> Well, here it goes. I won’t disgrace you by telling you how many tries at this letter I’ve taken if you won’t disgrace me by calling it a love letter. It isn’t, because I don’t love you, but it’s not not a love letter, because I do. You are the father of my children (yes, children, Valentino—the second is about seven weeks along), and I can’t regret the fact that you still mean a little bit to me. Or ever did.
> 
> The Molucella family tends so heavily toward the self-aware that to “fall in love” is at least fifty percent a performance. I can’t recognize the me that is in love with you. She is a newborn foal wobbling on jellied legs. Yet even she could think rationally enough about the future, and I know I saw the writing on the wall long before you, because I put it there myself.
> 
> What will historians say of my selfishness? You threw your world away for me and took it back, and I still have all of mine, unshed and un-re-grown. Am I obligated to discard the life I had? For you? You go from prince to pauper and back again; shall I go from pauper to prince? Would I understand you better? Should I? Should anyone?
> 
> No. I am thy Jester. You did the same to me, as I recall: elevated me. What a strange offense. You’d think it would be romantic to treat me as a Lady. No! I felt perverted! You were smugly handing over nothing, nothing, nothing at all—a paper key to your bank vault—and expecting me to delight over the jeweled words and think myself your equal. I am not so simple.
> 
> Before you even read the book, know this: the Jester survives the final scene of  _ The Weeping Lily. _ I look at it as less of a tragedy and more of a becoming. Her lover, perpetually troubled by the transience of status (2.10-13, 2.33-35), changes between poverty and wealth on a whim, but the Jester remains steadfast. Call me a lady and I will call you a fool! She knows what she is. I found my iron core long before I stopped calling myself a cynic. Learn from this.
> 
> I’m on my way north with M and the little unborn one. I can’t call it kicks yet—butterfly kisses would be better—but I can feel him! (Him, you ask? A mother knows.)
> 
> Enjoy the play.
> 
> Rhea Molucella
> 
> P.S. I will also know if you snip out my signature and sell my autograph.

The second letter read:

> Hello, Lord,
> 
> We are closer than you think. A little bird L told me you were vacationing in Ruseverna. I know you will be at the Zhemchuzhnyy this evening. With your leave, I would like the chance to eat dinner with you again (no expectations). Wear a red hat if I may approach you.
> 
> Don’t consider this an invitation to one of my concerts—you will be disappointed if you do! I’m done touring for the season and am only here to relax in anonymity with my brother and sisters.
> 
> I have been sitting here with pen dripping above the parchment for over an hour. What else do I write, knowing it will all come out hopeless and angry?
> 
> How do I say it, Valentino? How do I think it? I wanted you to eat me whole. I wanted to feed myself into your mouth, and I don’t mean erotically or even metaphorically. I wanted you to find me palatable. How strong is your stomach, Lord?
> 
> I refuse to linger any more in weakness. That is the last you will hear of it. K is a little beast. She’s cruising now, which means I’m forever on edge sweeping loose objects back from the edges of tables and tying my hair so she can’t grab it and jam it down her mouth (M never gave me trouble with that). Turlou taught her the alphabet today after she had two tantrums in the space of an hour because her brother can already read a little and she can’t. I told him that K doesn’t need to know the Rasputin alphabet. She won’t even remember it! He laughed and confidently proclaimed she’ll follow the family tradition and move to Rasputina someday. Oh, I doubt it, Valentino. With your blood in her veins, there is no way to predict what my baby girl will do.
> 
> Any half-siblings yet?
> 
> Rhea (& Turlou & Surthe & Cagwen) Molucella
> 
> P.S. To be an Anaris is to be idealistic. I’ve always thought Molucellas were the grounded ones. We know what we want. We get it. We also know that what we want is not always practical. You don’t know what you want, and never have, which is why you thought I would fix you. Well, you fixed me up good and proper, didn’t you? Fixed me with two of my own heirs, for whatever good that will get me.

Which obviously gave him pause.

Days passed. Kajack tumbled the unfamiliar names through the washing machine of his skull. Then he finally thought, No, I’d rather not, actually. And so he didn’t. If the mysterious Molucellas in Rasputina wanted him, it wasn’t like he was hard to find. Commander Gwen actually gave him a little lecture over that once she and Kretz were “done with” Ziren.

“Don’t you think you’re blaming the victim here?” Kajack said curiously. And Gwen finally conceded that Kajack had indeed been through it, but in spite of his martyrdom, it would be irresponsible not to do everything in her power to prevent the shocking adventure from repeating itself.

She sat him down. “I want you to write an informal essay about what went wrong,” she said. “What put you in that position, what worked, what you personally could have done better, and where we, the Lumen, failed you.”

He didn’t. Instead, Luma came by and busted him out of detention, and they got smoothies. What Kajack eventually slipped under Gwen’s office door was more of a slangy account of the characters he had encountered along the way, peppered, naturally, with all the various reasons why he felt he had no cause to regret any of his actions at all.

Example: Montgomery Dellatessa fixed the Castra Ati problem. Within a day, she had established contact with her adoptive mother, Lady Amoura Dellatessa, and received no less than three large care packages piled with familiar clothes and sweets and favorite books and a flood of letters from interested and concerned siblings in Eaoduin. Lady Dellatessa packed up to visit the estate before the day was out and at once began advising her daughter how to go about the deception. A letter went out to the Lumen that same evening. It read:

> To Whom It May Concern,
> 
> As I am sure you are aware, the Duchess Castra Ati, my biological mother, was killed by an unrelated third party. This letter is a courtesy notice to inform you that I have decided to assume the Duchess’s identity permanently and intend to use her extensive financial and social power to shift discrimination dynamics in the city of Bellichi and surrounding counties. I have enough on my hands cleaning up after my mother’s various victims and am not open to direct collaboration. Also, being sixteen years old, my real mother will ground me if I join up with any war regardless of the side I choose. However, I owe your operatives a debt for their bravery in rescuing me from Ziren Zen, and I’m happy to pass on whatever useful military information I can pick up.
> 
> Yours sincerely,
> 
> Montgomery Dellatessa,  _ or,  _ Princess Darla Ati,  _ or,  _ Duchess Castra Ati, your new double-agent.
> 
> “You must have someone around at all times to look out for you and advise you,” her mother fretted. “Think of all the other enemies this dreadful woman must have made!” And so the wizard Qunise Osbourne, Amoura’s close friend and Monty’s effective godmother, and her rogue ‘friend,’ ‘Sweetfruit Montague,’ guileless halfling trader, were called upon to defend the girl.

Zhara and Luba Zen went off the radar about two weeks later. A wizened old man illustrated from his neck to his ankles in interesting tattoos was put to death at the border between the Ruby Dunes and Mestrus. A minotaur accepted a centaur onto his remaining sloop,  _ Lady Wei, _ which he was still paying off to the Anaris lawyers, and had rampant homosexual sex with him (at least, as far as Kajack, who was getting all this information secondhand, assumed). Montgomery, by now comfortable in the guise of Castra Ati, extensively tore through her entire household and eliminated each servant with Keeper connections, hiring instead innocent or unaffiliated working-class folk looking for work in Bellichi. Many of the new staff she appointed were Gíh or Q’Ravi from the desert. She raised income and private healthcare and remarked on the productivity of her new “experiment”—high minimum wage—to gentlemen and ladies at every party. It wasn’t perfect, and never would be so long as it existed under the same financial framework that systematically robbed the poor, but in just a month’s time, the Ati name had transformed itself from a powerful but reclusive Keeper pedigree into a shrewd and cunning political agent. Gossips whispered of a midlife crisis. Monty controlled her mother’s reputation the way a chess player controls a queen.

Soon, Monty began to receive letters from her aunt and uncle, all carefully coded with secret updates on the political situation in the Gíhereth empire. It satisfied her. Maybe, she thought, when she had grown tired of Mestrian politics and the persona of the Duchess and was ready to lay the old woman out in the coffin at last, she would go east.

Kajack made zero effort to find out what had happened to his father. He didn’t care. After his estate crumbled into the ocean, Lord Anaris disappeared off the map. Occasional sightings rippled over the Ivory Coast for a while; most were proven inconclusive. Oliver Rose had no such luxury and was tried on two counts of murder: Dr. Liberty Taro’s (convicted) and Lord Valentino Anaris’s (exonerated). No body had been found. Nor would be. For that reason, Anaris was determined missing, not dead, and his will was not examined.

What of Liberty’s body? After an appropriate autopsy and investigation, she was delivered to the home of Kennick White, who had been named in Dr. Taro’s own will. In a perplexing twist of history, the grapevines of Bellichi became rabidly fixated on this out-of-towner’s address in Shirey—thousands of miles across Mestrus—for about a week. Here is a letter that Kennick wrote on the subject from a tiki bar in Dionysus:

Dear Shelby,

If this letter comes early, I guess it counts as me warnin’ you ahead of time that Momma L.—the last livin’ momma I had—is on her way. If it’s late, you already buried her, right? What else are you supposed to do with a coffin? It’s not an unintuitive object. Nothin’ good comes packaged in a casket.

I’m sorry, Bee.

I’m sick and tired of people I care about dyin’. The one thing I don’t regret is that I got to watch her die. Why’s it always gotta be a stab wound? You know, you only die when the brain stops workin’? So if you get stabbed in the heart, your heart can’t get any oxygen to your brain, and it’s kinda like the brain suffocates. But it looked peaceful. Kajack says that when he drowned, everything went grey and foggy, and he forgot it all, even the panic. So I hope that’s what happened to her.

Me and Momma L. were catchin’ up. I’d just scaled a wall and was still jittery from the height. I knew Momma L. was workin’ for an elite nobleman, but I didn’t know he was our own Kajack’s father, and then the woman I was with—no. My timelines are comin’ out jumbled. Let me try again.

So, there I was, still in my party dress, climbin’ up the side of a building on a spindly little rope dead in the middle of the witchin’ hour, all because I’d watched this greasy butler who would soon become a key character in my life drag Kajack out of a boat and into his dad’s estate. I just wanted to get my old friend out of his mess, so I climbed on up. Havin’ flung a grapplin’-hook at the window, I was expectin’ some malicious party to tip the mechanism off the tower when I was halfway up and send me plummetin’, so I was spooked to death until I’d gotten up to the window frame.

I hesitate to call the woman who greeted me then a “small” woman. She was much shorter than me, but every movement and every word gave her a remarkable presence. I could have looked at her all day. Her eyes were magnified behind a pair of giant glasses, and there was a touch of what I can only call cruelty to her expression, but maybe it was just the natural shape of her eyebrows. I knew her resting face. I’d seen her at the aquarium earlier and decided she looked untouchable. Chained to a bed like a big cat in her icy, soakin’-wet dress, torn, I had the exact same feeling. Her glare alone removed me to the opposite wall. I felt like a novice standin’ before a schoolmaster.

(The woman) “You… you’re Kajack’s friend. Help me, quickly, help me out of these restraints before the doctor comes back.”

(Kennick, dashin’ over) “I’m awful sorry, but I ain’t good at pickin’ locks. Ouch! Lady! You’re so cold!”

(The woman) “It’s fine. Just get—are you… breathing on me?”

(Kennick, huffin’) “Yeah, to warm you up!”

(The woman) “…Just get me out.”

I’d just peeled the cuffs away from her wrists and was standing back while she rubbed life back into them when the doctor bustled in through the door. Now, when this woman had said the word “doctor,” I’d envisioned a mad doctor with a stained lab coat or a rubber apron menacingly pinchin’ a pair of bloody forceps at me. It was so bizarre to see one of the women who raised me instead that astonished tears sprang to my eyes. Like my brain could do nothing but lubricate my senses.

(Momma L., huggin’ me) “Good gods, [TOMBNAME]! This is such a shock!”

(Kennick) “I have told you before, woman, that ain’t my name. It’s Kennick.”

Oh, the disappointment I felt in her.

(Momma L.) “Yes, Kennick, of course, Kennick. You’ll have to forgive me—”

I watched the stranger slip quietly out of the room behind Momma L., and, on impulse, I winked at her over Momma L.’s shoulder. The woman gave me an unfathomable expression and vanished into the darkness.

Momma L. and I compared notes. She’d been workin’ there for a couple years. When I questioned her, she said the Lord hired her only weeks after Esbeth. I did not tell her about you and me, feelin’ as if that was mine to know, but I did confess to her about Morgan, and a frost went over her brow. She told me it was not my fault and no one’s fault but Morgan’s. No matter what Kajack or any of us did, Morgan did not have to try to kill anyone. It was always a choice.

I think you ought to know that.

Anyhow, that’s when the butler with the small mustache and the greasy hair trotted in through the open chamber door. He was holdin’ an armful of towels. I described him to Kajack later and he gave the name Oliver. I smelt vampire on him but am unsure if he was one. For the sake of the vampire community, I hope not. Even though she was an unregistered cleric, Momma L. belonged to the Anaris estate, and so we are lookin’ at a high-profile murder.

(Oliver) “Hey!  _ Hey!  _ Who are  _ you? _ Where’s the Duchess?”

(Momma L.) “Excuse me. These are my personal quarters. The Duchess is recovered and has gone.”

(Oliver, brandishin’ a towel at me) “Down on your knees, miss!”

(Momma L.) “You will  _ not  _ hurt her!”

(Oliver) “With all respect, Dr. Taro, this stranger is an intruder! There are people trying to hurt the Duchess—we already know the Lumen has been attempting to free the boy—”

(Momma L.) “Then I will check her for a Lumen tattoo, but frankly, child, I—”

(Oliver) “You pick a terrorist organization over Lord Anaris.”

(Momma L., visibly gatherin’ all the courage she could muster and speakin’ harsh) “Do you know, Mr. Rose, I think you might be happier if you also picked a cause to throw your weight behind that is not the Lord! He is not going to acknowledge you in the way you need! We are all tired of watching you flounder about with that man, so would you simply  _ let it go!” _

I can’t begin to describe to you all the white-hot tension that was in my body, but I certainly channelled it all into the leap I took straight up in the air when the magical lights went out. I wish I’d stood and fought. Or do I? Or do I just wish I wished that?

By the time the lights flickered on again, my momma was lyin’ on the floor in a pool of her own blood. And I, havin’ leapt onto the rope and scrambled half down it, didn’t see where Oliver went. He’d had a dagger concealed in the towels. My theory, now I’ve gotten the chance to speak to Kajack and exchange perspectives, is that this Oliver fellow had entered the room not with the intention of deliverin’ towels or checkin’ in but to kill the pale black-haired woman.

Actually, lookin’ at the dialogue I’ve just written, I’m formin’ a new opinion.

Could it be that Oliver was tryin’ to kill the Duchess?

Let’s look at the timeline. Kajack says Oliver was raisin’ hell about the black-haired woman disappearin’ prior to the lights goin’ out, but he didn’t look freaked out—in other words, like he murdered someone—until later. I was havin’ my long conversation with Momma L. and never left the room. Sure, let’s go ahead an’ say Oliver caught wind of the woman’s escape. A guard saw her runnin’ off or a maid found bare footprints or he encountered her himself. Then he came up to the doctor’s tower after. Why? If all he was doin’ was comin’ to check for an empty bed, why hide a dagger in his towels?

I guess you can tell from my language that I’m not as morose about the whole thing as you and me are used to bein’. How can I be? Morgan’s wasn’t a good death, but Momma L., who was a mouse of a woman and lived a frightened, cautious life, was righteous, and in her last words she spoke her mind. I’m not comin’ home. Shelby, would you bury her? Please?

This is the last body I will send home to you.

Kajack got word to me that the Lumen is lookin’ for a new spy. I’m bettin’ it all. I’m actually writin’ this letter from a little table outside the bar where I’m supposed to meet up with the Lumen agent they’re sendin’. “Lumen agent!” Ain’t that something? All I know is that I’ll be blindfolded and taken to a secondary location for the interview. Kajack tells me it ain’t worth worryin’ about, so I ain’t worried.

(Kennick) “And—sorry, gosh, I know I’m not supposed to be askin’ questions—but about this secondary location…?”

(Kajack, sippin’ on a water) “Umm, well, when I did it, they took me to this little warehouse that did  _ not  _ make my skin look popping. It was fine. Y’know, I’m probably not supposed to be telling you this, but I’ve heard some gossip that they’ll be interviewing you on, like, a mountainside? So when you get hired, tell me if I was right.”

(Kennick) “You really think I’ll get hired?”

(Kajack, twitchin’ his head in the direction of the small blue vampire who just walked in the door) “I mean, they sent  _ Toulouse  _ to pick you up, so obviously they’re willing to talk through your resumé. If they wanted you to hard pass on the interview before you even got there, they’d send Parisa. That’s what they did to me.”

I better go, Bee. I’ll wrestle together a more detailed letter all about how we got here and who I’ve become through these trials when I’m done. I’m makin’ Kajack post this letter while I go off and do the interview, so you ought to get it soon, unless, characteristically, the boy forgets.

Love you always,

Kennick White


	42. Epilogue

All that came later. Kajack sat on the hillside with his arms wrapped around his legs, staring, with no thoughts in his head at all, at the Bellichi firefighters as they scrambled through the remains of the fallen house. When the sun got in his eyes, he finally uncoiled his cold muscles and stood. A breeze picked up. The red curtain draped around his body fanned out like a flower.

He had never felt so naked, nor so selfish, not even when he’d killed Morgan.

He was frightened by a sound.

“Oh,” he said, relieved. “You guys.” There were scatterings of suburbs around him, but the hill sat on the extremity of Bellichi, too remote and pointy and studded with rock and bramble to bother doing anything with. The bulk of the city, glistering wetly, was visible to him against the coastline like the hem of a great wide blanket. He felt good. He had been considering the gravel road that ran by. Luma, Marlon, Bart, all of them, and Viridios, ushering along a restrained Ziren, were hiking up the hill, flicking blood and grime off each other and squabbling; a tiny grey lizard shot away and darted into the shadows under Kajack’s bare toes.

“Kajack. Thank gods.”

Marlon enveloped him. He stroked the back of Kajack’s neck and whispered confidences like _I’m so glad you’re safe_ and _We were looking for you_ into his neck and cheeks. These were broken up by a curt “Gross. Are we getting a move on, or are we standing around watching them kiss until they get arrested again for public indecency?”

“You’re just jealous,” said Kajack automatically.

She lost it. “As if you’re the first person to burn down a house!” she barked. “I’m not even convinced you had the guts to do it on purpose. Do _not_ think anyone here is impressed.”

“Parisa,” said Toulouse reproachfully. “Give him some time.”

“We’re going. See you sorry losers back at headquarters. Toulouse, get on the broom.”

She produced her broomstick. Toulouse stammered and fiddled with his glasses sedulously until they were askew and looked, pained, across the grassy expanse at Luma, but he eventually nodded, clearly resigning himself to professionalism, and clambered onto the back of the broom, lacing his hands around Parisa’s middle. He waved once. Parisa did not. They were a dot on the horizon in less than a minute.

Luma exhaled. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” said Kajack miserably. He wiped his eyes. Smolls gently encircled his body with two big orange paws. Luma came over and touched the small of his back. Marlon kissed the corner of his mouth. Then all of them piled in close, one by one, some unsure, others eager, but every last one breathing, and all important. Look at them. Look closely. This will not last.

If you had asked Kajack to describe the feeling he was having in that moment, he might have said it was like drinking a lot of cold milk. It was a frothy, empty, nauseous sort of feeling that stole the ground beneath his feet and left his stomach cold. When he moved or thought he was slow and sluggish. But the sun petted his face. It was over. He was glad when he turned away from the lot where the estate had once stood.

“Get off me,” he said snottily, not meaning it. “Eugh! Please! You guys just crawled out of a _sewer!”_ What he really meant to say was congratulations. What a sweep of a mission! And Kretz had brought the sweater with him from the houseboat folded under his shirt. There was a brief discussion of what they were going to do, having depleted their provisions; had the headquarters been seaside, they could have sailed, but it was landlocked. They would have to hike.

“Ho, travelers! Yeh need a ride?”

“No way,” muttered Bart. The others laughed feebly.

But when they all turned to look, it was the very same cheery merchant from Halssenova who had carted them south in the first place, and for a brief exciting rush, the Delta squad got to experience warmly greeting an old friend who members of the Lumen like Viridios and Kretz did not already know. How was your journey? Are you well? Going north? And so Kajack gathered all of his things and clambered with the rest of them onto her little dingy colorful half-broken-down cart, where he sat with his legs dangling out the back, leaning against the warm bodies of his family, and as the cart creaked on, Kajack rested. He may have even dozed off, because he had a dream. Or he’d caught a whiff of Anaris’s special omelette. One or the other.

Morgan dropped down next to him. “What a week, huh?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Kajack.

“Not the worst one.”

“I didn’t think it would get that complicated,” Kajack said fervently. “I mean, like, what happened to the squad rescuing me? Yeah, sure, they got arrested the first time they tried, whatever, but that’s what happens when you rush a guarded building! There were like a hundred other ways to get me out. Parisa’s got a broomstick, but you’ll notice she never thought to fly up to my tower.”

Morgan smiled faintly. “You could have asked her to. You could have asked.”

Kajack let his eyes sink in the sway. “Are you happy?”  
  
“I’m dead, dumbass.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “When I tried to kill you, I knew I’d either lose or win. I didn’t think I’d still be trying to figure out which was which years later. At least I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve for being better than you at something.” He studied his brother. “Time’s up, Kajack. Your dad’s here. One last question?”

“Sure. What did you think—”

“Hey, excuse me! You don’t get to ask _me_ anything, I’m dead.” Morgan shifted his weight. “Well, as long as the question is on the table, are _you_ happy? Did _you_ get what you wanted?”   
  
“Huh?”

Kajack opened his eyes.

Kretz was trying to squeeze himself into the space between Kajack and the wooden beam of the cart. A fleeting sense memory told Kajack that the space was occupied, but he couldn’t remember why, or how, when it was so obviously empty, so he rubbed his eyes in frustration and scooted over. Kretz jammed his knee against the spintery post and slid his body painfully into the corner.

“Can I talk to you, kiddo?”

“Mm. Yeah.” He was exhausted. Kretz finally plonked his butt down onto the wooden crossbeam and pulled an old-man face. Kajack yawned. “Is this going to be a whole ‘thing’? Like, ‘uh-oh, Kajack, we need to talk’?” He gave up and let his eyes fall shut again. “If it’s heavy, maybe wait until we stop at a drive-in and get some food. I have, like, no energy right now.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

“Ooh, that is heavy, sir. Please.” There was a pause. Kajack shook his head. “I mean, I’ll take it.” He rubbed sleep from his eye. “I just don’t even want to think about dads right now. It’s not personal. My ‘bad dad’ capacity is so full that I can barely even think about good dads.”

Kretz sighed. “Then I’ll be your general.” Try this sense memory, Kajack: a committed pre-reveal war general gamely shuttering away his heart and strolling down the line of privates, barking orders. “I almost regret that I never got to meet that monster who called himself your father. Believe me, I would’ve had a few things to say to that man.”

 _“I_ don’t,” said Kajack honestly. “Like, sure, I see it, but I already burned down his house. I think that’s enough. Maybe, if he ever comes back and tries being a creep to me again, you can follow that through. ‘My dad can beat up your dad,’ except it’s just me bullying myself. Hah.” He shivered and hugged his arms around his chest, miserable again.

“Are you all right?” Kretz asked gruffly.

Oh, but it was a young man with dark hair and the faintest trace of scruff around his speckled chin asking, he remembered now, and the questions were different. “Yes,” said Kajack anyway, to all three.

A hook dug into his guts and heaved his heart up through his throat. Weightless, he floated out through the back of the cart on an invisible fishline, not sad, nor angry, but lonely, lonely, for the old stately face and its order. Ridiculous. Silly, Kajack. Look at your themes! It’s not like this will never happen again. The last hot breeze of Bellichi spiralled up from the wet earth and melted him back down.

Kajack dumped his body against Kretz’s shoulder and stopped shivering. The panorama about him had gone from colorless lawn to green, green, green, green. As if the world had held its breath for him. As if the world were made of the same thing. As if the bloody pomegranance down the road had never happened at all.

*

The curtain comes down. The story is done.

Lord Anaris lives, but Kajack has won.

That wretched estate has been burnt to the ground,

The Duchess is dead, the bracelet was found;

And Mestrus continues to froth in Tharcaen

Politically speaking, as wasps froth on pain;

I shall speak of the cast, lest my reader forgets:

Zhara, Monty, the doctor, the Duchess, and Kretz,

Hugearmious, Luba, and Oliver too,

Not the least our dear Kajack, and certainly you!

Oh, what characters! Plot! What a story it was!

I made Castra the Duchess so evil because

Why, the rich are superior only in blame.

But where Anaris prizes a family name,

I would sooner commit to my friends, if you please.

After reading BODE: Succ, I think Kajack agrees.

For I care not for heirs, nor for family line,

And have no greater love than for me and what’s mine.


End file.
